


The Lesser of Two Evils

by warningfandomobsessed



Series: Loved in Spite of Ourselves [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguing, Coming Out, F/M, First Kiss, Fist Fights, Holding Hands, Holding Hands As Punishment, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Nonbinary Character, Éponine and Bahorel are Always Ready to Throw Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warningfandomobsessed/pseuds/warningfandomobsessed
Summary: When both Enjolras and Grantaire are having a bad day and they both push each other, the consequences for their actions may not be as devastating as they might have been. Then again...orThe one where Grantaire and Enjolras fight and, as punishment, are forced to hold hands for half an hour.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! First fic EVER in this fandom, so kindness is appreciated! 
> 
> Just so you know, all of Les Amis are seventeen in this fic and are in a sort of sixth form type of school/college thing, apart from Gavroche who is thirteen and comes up from the lower school for after-school meetings, but cannot go to the lunch-time ones.

For Grantaire, it had not been a good day thus far.

His dad was being an asshole, he’d just found out that he was failing maths, Enjolras hates him… Oh, and he’s also a tad hungover. The majority of this, he can deal with. Hangover? Had hundreds. Dad? Pssh! When isn’t he being an asshole? The maths thing? Yeah, that isn’t great, but he’ll scrape by; he always does. But, Enjolras hating him? That’s a little more difficult to deal with. Though it must be said that it’s nothing new to Grantaire, Enjolras had hated Grantaire for years, but it does seem to be yet another shit thing to add to his already long-enough list of the crap things about today. It’s also not even lunch yet, so there’s always time for the list to grow.

For Enjolras, it hadn’t been a particularly good day either. Sure, it wasn’t quite as bad as Grantaire’s, but their tolerances for bullshit were vastly different. The source of Enjolras's irritation lay with his irritation with the world around him. The school board had yet again ignored his proposal that the school, being in a relatively disadvantaged area as it was, should provide a good breakfast to all of the people who can't afford one at home if they were going to preach about how 'breakfast is the most important meal of the day' so damn hard. His frustration had only increased as the morning had gone on. He had been given detention by Javert for being uncooperative in his debate class when he had been asked to argue for the 'against' side in a gay rights debate they had been having (ironically, he had debated with Javert about why he shouldn't be forced to take part much better than he would have had he participated in the debate), Grantaire hates him, nothing new, but no less disheartening than usual, and, to top his shitty morning off with a cherry of discomfort, some asshole had decided to kick him rather hard in the right knee that morning before class and, subsequently, Enjolras had been limping slightly all morning. So, no, not a particularly good morning for him either.

At least lunch break would give them both a reprieve from all that makes them despair of the world, even if it is only for fifty minutes.

Being that it was a Tuesday or Wednesday, the ABC Social Justice Club was gathering in a classroom generously offered to them by Musichetta's nutrition teacher Madame Houcheloup. Of course, Grantaire's brain, in its mildly hungover state, had decided to forget this. This led to a good ten minutes of aimless wandering about the general area of the school that he was sure it was in (it wasn't) until his mind decided to get itself in gear and work the way it was supposed to. After rushing three-quarters of the way there, Grantaire slowed his pace and sauntered his way to the meeting, hoping that the slight blush on his cheeks from the running wouldn't give away how much he actually cared about this stupid group of overly-eager and moral teens. And Enjolras. He doesn't count as an overly-eager teen; there's just something about him that makes you think that he can actually do what he says he will.

Grantaire enters the meeting late. This does not surprise Enjolras, not really. It just disappoints him a little. No matter how he tried to act aloof and uncaring about Grantaire's indifference to what they were trying to accomplish, he did, in fact, care for the self-destructive little bastard, a fact that both confused and irritated him to no end. Grantaire had clearly tried to slip into the meeting unnoticed. Enjolras would have liked to think that he did this to avoid disrupting the meeting already in progress, but it seemed to be much more likely that he was trying to get away with being late without having to justify said lateness. Enjolras fixed his eyes on him in a hard glare as the other boy took his seat between Courfeyrac and Éponine wordlessly and stared expectantly back at him. It took Enjolras a good twenty seconds to realise that he had not continued the speech that he had been making from the front of the room on... what was it today? Single-use plastic? He thought so. He cleared his throat and continued what he was saying until, moments later, an idea occurred to him.

"What do you think, Grantaire?" he asked, a false smile plastered on his face. He knew that this was somewhat cruel to Grantaire after all the guy had come in quietly and sat down to listen, but, frankly, Enjolras was in a bitchy mood. Yes, their great leader was capable of pettiness such as the world had never seen. It had been a bad day and Enjolras was sick of just letting things slide, as he had done regarding his leg earlier.

"Huh?" Grantaire had replied dumbly. In his defence, he was tired, hungry, hungover, and, to be honest, completely lost when it came to what they were doing this meeting.  
"Well, you must have an opinion on single-use plastics given that you feel justified in skipping the bit of the meeting where we talk about the facts and statistics surrounding it?" Enjolras could hear himself. He sounded like an asshole, and yet he couldn't seem to make himself stop. Grantaire rolled his eyes and tried to not let the leader's harsh words get to him. "Go on," Enjolras prompted, "Out with it!"

"God, can you hear yourself?" Grantaire bust out suddenly. Here we go, everyone else thought collectively. "Seriously? Are you aware of how pompous and arrogant you sound right now?"  
Yes, thought Enjolras. "No," he said out loud. "I think I am perfectly justified in questioning your thoughts about this topic! I mean, obviously, you're the expert! You must be if you feel like you can properly participate after joining us..." he glanced at the clock above the door, "almost fifteen minutes late!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! So sorry, everyone! I didn't realise that late arrivers would be verbally abused in front of the entire group and waste valuable time we could be spending jabbering on about how plastics are ruining the planet without actually doing anything about it!" Grantaire was standing at his desk now, the table in front of him the only thing stopping him from striding over where Enjolras was and throttling him for being such an abominable ass. Enjolras seemed to be speechless, he wasn't aware of ever having seen Grantaire so pissed off at something so seemingly small before, and, sure, there was a certain amount of provocation on his part, but clearly, Grantaire was also in an astonishingly petty mood.

"Grantaire..." he began, suddenly quite sorry for saying what was said, but Grantaire continued his rant.

"You know, you are not the centre of the universe, Apollo!" he said, pointing an accusing finger at Enjolras. "I'm sorry I was late, but, and it may surprise you, some of us actually have a life outside this club! Some of us have classes that we actually have to work hard in to pass them because, unlike you, we don't all have a daddy on the board of governors!" He paused to take a breath. Enjolras looked like he had been slapped in the face. Suddenly, Enjolras felt cold rage and steeled his kicked-puppy gaze. He scoffed mockingly.

"Like you've ever tried hard to do anything in your life." It was a low blow and he knew it. All of Les Amis de L'ABC knew that Grantaire's uncaring exterior was just a facade and that he was actually a deeply caring and loyal friend, but Grantaire himself was not aware of this and so the words carried the weight of Grantaire's friends' opinions of him, of which he cared deeply.  
Instead of defending himself, Grantaire grabbed his bag with a sort of quiet fury from where he had dumped it under the table and stormed out of the room, determined to not let angry tears stream down his face. Back inside the room, Enjolras was facing silent scrutiny from his peers. Some (Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Cosette, Marius) were refusing to look him in the eye, others were glaring openly at him (Éponine, Jehan, Bahorel, Feuilly, Musichetta), and Combeferre was looking at him disapprovingly, though not judgmentally, an expression he had managed to perfect over fifteen years of knowing Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Enjolras sighed. He knew that he had been wrong. "Ferre?" he asked simply, gesturing to the podium stacked with notes in front of him. Combeferre nodded and Enjolras practically ran out of the room, barely remembering to grab his bag from by the door as he went.

As Grantaire stormed away from the room, he thought about what Enjolras had said. Did his friends really think that he cared so little? Well, what were they supposed to think? After all, if you act like you don't give a shit all of the time, people are going to start believing it. Still, it hurt that the people he called his friends thought so little of him. He was so lost in his contemplations that he didn't notice Enjolras half-jogging, half-limping up to him. If he had, he would have walked faster. It wasn't until the leader actually grabbed his arm and spun him around to face him that Grantaire even noticed that he was there. "Grantaire?" he asked, looking concerned. Unfortunately, Grantaire wasn't looking for concern, he was looking for an apology. Therefore, this expression only served to fuel the fire of anger still burning away in Grantaire's gut.

"What?" he spat. Enjolras looked taken aback and, suddenly, his faced steeled itself and he prepared for another fight.

"Look, I just meant that, if you were to just apply yourself more, you could achieve so much! Look at you, you're great at art and dancing and boxing and you're so good at public speaking when you actually try!" As soon as it left his mouth, Enjolras knew that he had screwed up. He knew this because he knew Grantaire. When Grantaire is very angry, furious even, there are a few small things that he always does right before everything goes to hell. Number one: he looks down at his hands. Number two: he shakes his head. Number three: he smiles and laughs. Now, number three doesn't sound all that bad, but trust me, it is. The smile and laugh are not the kinds that you do when you're having a good time. No. These have no joy to them, no happy feeling behind them, just pure vitriol and cynicism for the fate of the universe. There is also one other thing he does when things are about to go to hell in a big way: his shoulders shake. If you didn't look closely, you might have thought that his shoulders were shaking from the laughter, but you would be wrong. See, these are all things that Grantaire does before he punches someone in the face and so his shoulders are shaking from making sure that he doesn't go any further than that. Enjolras saw these symptoms before Grantaire drew his hand back and yet did nothing to defend himself because, if he was being honest with himself, he kind of deserved it. Just a little.

When people say that they see red, Grantaire knows what they mean, but he doesn't agree. No, red is a good colour. White, on the other hand... White is what Grantaire sees on the rare occurrence that all he can see and hear is rage, white-hot. White is what he sees just before his fist connects with Enjolras's face.

It wasn’t until Grantaire felt a sting in his lip that his head and vision cleared up and he realised that Enjolras must have hit him back. To be honest, he’s actually kind of glad Enjolras punched him, it removed at least a tiny bit of the guilt he felt when he saw the bruise already blooming across his Apollo’s left cheekbone. Only a tiny bit, though. Grantaire felt compelled to apologise, but suddenly, a pair of arms wrenched them apart.

Javert.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire spend some time in Headmaster Valjean's office and come away with a deal that Grantaire isn't sure he was right to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning: there are a couple of mentions of injury and blood in this chapter, but nothing too graphic, so I wouldn't have thought it would be anything to worry about unless you're particularly squeamish!

  
“What the _hell_ do you boys think you’re doing?!” Javert screamed, his nostrils flaring in a way that was not dissimilar to those of an angry bull. “I suppose you think you’re _cool,_ do you?” Javert continued, a sneer on his face, “Starting a fight in the middle of the hallway?” Truth be told, neither Grantaire or Enjolras had particularly noticed that they were in the middle of the hallway and attracting attention from the other students milling about at lunch, they had both been too focussed on punching and/or being punched. Despite having only asked the two boys questions thus far, Javert didn’t seem all that keen on getting any answers from them, he just kept going, yelling at them. “I suppose you think you’re grown up enough that you can do anything now, is that it?” he went on. “You upper-school kids think you’re the bee’s knees, but you know what? You’re just children! If you’re going to behave like children, I’m going to treat you like children!” He looked between the battered boys with victory in his eyes and his head held high. “Valjean’s office now!”

Javert clearly seemed to believe that Valjean was a man feared by the general population of the school. Obviously, he did otherwise, he never would have felt such a sense of triumph in sending them to the office. How wrong he was.

It is a rare thing to find a headteacher as respected and well-liked as Jean Valjean. He rarely shouts at the students, or at anyone for that matter, he tries to make the school a peaceful and accepting oasis in which everyone is welcome, and he genuinely wants his students to succeed, a seemingly rare quality in the modern teacher. Grantaire had dealt with Valjean a great number of times in the past and, every time, the man was careful with his words, firm though not overly controlling of the situation, and had been respectful of Grantaire’s desire to either speak or not, something Grantaire had greatly appreciated. This is why Grantaire wasn’t particularly worried about being sent to the head’s office.

Enjolras, on the other hand, had never been to the office before.

As Grantaire had accused before, he was aware that having a parent on the school board made it a little easier for Enjolras to get away with being a little disruptive during his school career and so Enjolras had never had any cause to go to Valjean’s office. Even with his numerous protests, Enjolras preferred to go over Valjean’s head and straight to the school board. It’s not that he didn’t respect the man’s ability to make a change within the school, Enjolras just preferred to make a strong statement and going straight to the school board did that. It was this unfamiliarity with the situation that really made Enjolras nervous about the whole thing. That and the guilt that was coursing through his veins as he felt his knuckles begin to bruise.

Javert insisted on escorting the two boys to the office with a hand clasped on the both of them at all times, as though he believed they would try to make a run for it if they weren’t held down. It isn’t a long way to the office, but it feels like a lifetime for both of the boys. The stares and jeers that follow them from the other students en route are enough to make anyone uncomfortable, even Grantaire who is rarely bothered by things such as trifling as the opinions of other people.

Once they reached the outside of the office, Javert instructed them to wait for him to notify Valjean of the situation. He also forbade them from sitting on the two chairs outside the office because in his words, "You boys are here to be _punished_ not _relax_!" Grantaire and Enjolras had both simultaneously raised their eyebrows at this and, if they hadn't been trying to beat each other to a bloody pulp only minutes previously, they would have burst out laughing at the absurdity of that statement the moment that Javert disappeared into the office. Suffice to say, they did not have a good old giggle while they waited; Enjolras was too nervous and Grantaire was too stubborn and they were both under the impression that the other hated them. Overall, not a great atmosphere for laughter. The door looming in front of them seemed to remain closed for hours. Every so often, the door handle would move slightly, as though someone had their hand on it on the other side, and Enjolras expected it to open to the sight of a furious Valjean, but nothing happened. Grantaire didn't notice as the door handle rattled for what must have been the third time in as many minutes as he was too busy staring at his own hands. He seemed fascinated by his bruised knuckles and utterly determined not to look Enjolras in the eye.

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the door swung open. Valjean didn't look as angry as Enjolras had thought he would look, he certainly wasn't happy, but he didn't seem to be bubbling with righteous fury the way that Javert often seemed to. His lips were pressed into a thin grimace as he took in the appearances of the two boys. To be fair to Valjean, they can't have looked good. Enjolras's bruised cheekbone was threatening to spread into a full-blown black eye and Grantaire's lip was split and swollen in a way that made him look as though he had been attacked by one particularly pissed off bee. The boys looked at Valjean and Valjean looked at the boys and Javert stood smugly smirking at the boys from behind Valjean. "Sorry, for taking so long, gentlemen," Valjean began, "Why didn't you sit down? That's what chairs are for, after all!" He smiled warmly at them, the grimace now hidden, and Enjolras pretended not to notice Javert's smug expression fall from his face. "This way, gentlemen!" Valjean gestured for them to enter his office first and he came in behind them, effectively kicking Javert out of his office, something for which both boys were eternally grateful (there's a reason that the entire student body had nicknamed the overzealous teacher 'The Inspector').

The inside of the office was brighter than Enjolras had been expecting. Well, Enjolras hadn't known what to expect really. Somewhere at the back of his mind, there was an image of a dark and dingy office that wasn't dissimilar to a dungeon, but a dungeon this was not. The walls were painted a deep blue, a skylight in the ceiling flooded the room with bright sunlight, there were two filing cabinets, a bookshelf upon which sat two metal candlesticks, a desk with a laptop and a picture of Cosette, but otherwise, the room was simple and uncluttered in a way that suggested openness and tranquillity. Not quite the atmosphere that Enjolras had been expecting. "Take a seat, gentlemen," Valjean prompted, gesturing to two of the three seats that sat on one side of the desk. Valjean, surprisingly, did not sit on the opposite side of the desk, instead, he took it upon himself to take the third of the chairs where Enjolras and Grantaire were sitting. Enjolras must have looked confused because before he knew it, Valjean had launched into an obviously rehearsed explanation. "I sit on this side of the desk, Enjolras, to try to show you that I am not here to be your enemy. I am not 'the other side' as it were. I am here to be on your side as much as I can be. You of all people must understand, given your extracurricular activities, that the school board is not on the side of the school, but on their own side of bureaucracy and practicality rather than what is right for the pupils."

It was at this moment that Enjolras decided that he quite liked Valjean. The suppressed anger in his eyes as he talked about the school board spoke to Enjolras in an almost spiritual way. This here was possibly his new favourite teacher.

"Now," Valjean continued, "Down to business. I am told that you two were fighting. Is that true?"

"Yes," Enjolras replied confidently, in a business-like manner. Grantaire simply nodded, it seemed as good a time as any to exercise his right to not say anything.

  
"Would either of you care to tell me why you were fighting? Because, and forgive me if I'm wrong here, I thought you were quite good friends." Even Enjolras wasn't prepared to answer that question. Maybe if he had been given a few days to prepare before being asked that question he would be able to answer it, but, just then, he was struggling. He almost answered with 'It's complicated' but, is it? Not really, but how is he supposed to explain to Valjean that he really does want to be Grantaire's friend and maybe more, but he doesn't know what to do with those feeling right now so he'd settle for just being friends even though Grantaire obviously hates him? No, Enjolras is not going to be the one to explain that.

In the other chair, Grantaire's train of thought was somewhat similar to Enjolras's with one glaring difference. Grantaire's mind was pretty much just screaming _'CHOO CHOO, MOTHERFUCKER! I'M IN LOVE WITH HIM AND HE HATES ME!_ ' but he couldn't say that in front of either of the other people in the room so he just settled for a vague shrug. In all fairness to Grantaire, a vague shrug was more than Enjolras had given.

"Okay," Valjean continued on, "I'm sensing some awkwardness on this topic, so let's try something simpler. Cold, hard facts."

' _I'm fucked_ ,' thought Grantaire. He was very much aware that he does not come away well when you look at the facts.

  
"Who hit who first?" To the surprise of everyone in the room, both Grantaire and Enjolras answered immediately.

"Me," they both said. Valjean raised one of his eyebrows questioningly and was about to further dig into this issue when Grantaire cut him off.

"I instigated the fight, Sir. Enjolras said something and I just snapped, it's not his faul-"

"Yes, it is!" Enjolras cut him off before he could finish. "It is my fault! Yes, Grantaire threw the first punch, but I'm the one who provoked him in the first place and I retaliated and it seems that I inflicted the worst injury! So, if Grantaire is going to be in trouble, Sir, I should be in more than him!"

"I don't need your help, Apollo," Grantaire said suddenly, turning to Enjolras and pretty much ignoring Valjean now who was looking on with curiosity. "I am perfectly capable of remembering the events of ten minutes ago without your help!"

"Clearly not, given that you were going to leave out the part where I split your lip open!" Grantaire lifted his hand to his lip and felt the drying blood there as though he hadn't really noticed it before. He was just about to retaliate, saying something about how much of a presumptuous asshole Enjolras was being when Valjean spoke up once more.

"That's enough of that," he said, "Grantaire, you said that Enjolras said something before you hit him, what was it?"

"I don't remember."

"Surely you must," Valjean prompted, "If it provoked you to the point of violence, it must be pretty memorable." Grantaire simply shook his head. No matter how much of an asshole Enjolras was sometimes, Grantaire still had these feelings towards him and didn't want to needlessly land him in trouble for something that wasn't even his fault in the first place. Valjean sighed at the silence. "Enjolras?" he asked.

"I said that if he just applied himself more he could achieve great things." To be perfectly honest, Enjolras still didn't see what he had said wrong there. He had meant it to be encouraging, but, clearly, he had been wrong on that front.

"Ah," Valjean said as though everything made perfect sense to him, "I see." His voice was suddenly quiet and pensive. "Right!" he said, standing up swiftly and looking the boys over thoughtfully. "I'm going to give the two of you a choice. I can either give you the punishment that Monsieur Javert wants me to give you: after-school detention every night including Fridays for the next month and no social-time at breaks and lunches during that period plus a month afterwards and two-page apology letters to each other, myself, and Monsieur Javert. Or, you can choose my punishment."

"What's your punishment?" Enjolras asked, now so desperate for any kind of alternative to Javert's brutal choice.

"The two of you sit in the main hallway and hold hands for half an hour." He looked at the boys expectantly, clearly awaiting an answer.

"Can we confer before we agree to anything? Seeing as it affects both of us..." Enjolras sounded confident suddenly. And why shouldn't he? This was his element, even if it was on a small scale, fighting for what he believes to be right. After all, if suspects in interrogation are allowed to confer with their lawyer, the two of them should at least be allowed to confer with each other. Valjean smiled warmly at his question.

"I don't see why not. I'll just wait outside, one of you knock on the door when you're done," he answered pleasantly, leaving them in privacy.

"Okay," Enjolras began, turning to look at Grantaire, "I obviously think that we should take Valjean's deal, but I didn't want to say anything without knowing that you're completely comfortable holding my hand in front of probably the whole school." Enjolras looked so sincere and, frankly, it broke Grantaire's heart a little to think that only minutes ago he had thought punching that face was a good idea.

Grantaire was never going to be completely comfortable holding Enjolras’s hand in front of these entire school. At least, not in these circumstances. He already knew that the moment they touched hands, he would get sweaty and blushy and he would start to stutter the way he tends to do when he gets flustered. Normally, he is able to keep the stuttering to a minimum around Enjolras and tries to cancel it out with playful mockery and cynicism in ABC meetings, but if he was to hold the hand of this god-like being for more than a couple of seconds, Grantaire thinks he might just explode in a cloud of nervous sweat and admiration. And that’s with knowing that Enjolras hates him. God forbid he ever gets the thought in his head that Enjolras may actually like him, even on a friendly level. If that happened, he’s fairly certain he may never stop blushing. Grantaire did consider Javert’s option briefly. Two months of practical solitude with only a seething Enjolras and awkward silence to keep him company? Could be worse. But, to have to write apology letters? What would he even say?  


 

> _To Enjolras,_  
>  _Sorry I tried to punch your face in, though, in my defence, you were being_  
>  _somewhat a twat._  
>  _Sincerely,_  
>  _Grantaire_  
>  _PS. I fucking love you_

  
Nope. Nope. Nope. Not that.

“I guess. I’d rather do that than have to write The Inspector an apology letter. Seriously, what would you even write in that letter?” Grantaire tried to joke a little at the end, but it came off sounding slightly more desperate than he had meant it to. Despite this, Enjolras did respond.

“ _'Dear Dickhead, I’m sorry that that stick is so far up your ass, sincerely Grantaire’_?” Enjolras replied deadpan. This wasn’t really the kind of this they did. Joke around that is. Grantaire wasn’t quite sure how to react and so let out a single huff of laughter that left the room far too quiet the moment it was done. In a last ditch effort to alleviate some of that awkwardness, Grantaire kicked the door twice to signal Valjean and the man re-entered the room with the same reassuring smile on his face that he'd had since before he had left.

As Enjolras told Valjean of their decision, Grantaire contemplated what would be worse: having to suck up to Javert in a bullshit letter or hold hands with the guy that he loves but who hates him for half an hour.

Grantaire hoped he had made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are certainly appreciated! Thank you for the love on the last chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a teacher is stressful. Being a headteacher, even more so. Sometimes, even the best teachers need a way to kick back, relax and have a little bit of fun. 
> 
> Sometimes a little harmless gambling is good for the soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to explore the relationship between Valjean and Javert in this universe a bit and so you get a glimpse of it in this chapter.
> 
> This chapter is set just after the beginning of the next chapter, but only just. A good section of this chapter and the next one happen concurrently and so there are no spoilers for what will happen next!
> 
> Enjoy!

Five Minutes Later

Javert knocked on the door of Valjean's office in the same efficient manner that he always had - two quick raps on the door before waiting for confirmation to enter - and waited. When Valjean told him to come in, to say that he sounded irritated would be an understatement. To almost anyone else, Valjean likely would sound overly-formal at the most when he is truly furious, but to Javert, they had known each other so long the moment he heard the other man's voice he became reprehensive about entering the room. Some serious shit must have been going down for Valjean to get that pissed off. "Everything okay?" he asked, somewhat concerned.

"Yes. Well, no, not really. The school board are angry with me for a sudden surge in uniform discrepancies in the lower school."

"But you have almost nothing to do with the lower school. You're head of the sixth form," Javert pointed out. Valjean scraped his hands over his eyes and raked them through his greying hair. Just for a moment, he looked exhausted.

"I know that, you know that, every student who went to the lower school knows that. The school board, however, seems to have overlooked that in their fervour to send me a passive-aggressive email about it."

As you can probably tell, Valjean was not a fan of the school board.

It's not that he thought that any of the people on the board were bad people individually, it's just that when they came together they seemed to have this awful ability to only care about doing what is best for the school on the administrative front and forget that schools actually have a duty to provide children with an education. There are not many things on this planet that truly make Valjean's blood boil the way that the ineffectual and seemingly uncaring people on the school board seem to. Perhaps that's why he had taken enough of a liking to Enjolras and his friends to give them the offer that he did. They are passionate about making the world a better place for the people in it; everything the school board is not.

"Sorry, Javert," he said, aware that the other teacher likely had not just popped round for a chat, "What was it you wanted?" Javert looked momentarily confused before he remembered the reason that he had come back to Valjean's office a mere fifteen minutes after walking away from it having dropped off Enjolras and Grantaire.

"I was curious as to what you ended up doing concerning the two boys I brought you."

"Ah," Valjean said, smiling. Valjean, as a general rule, did not do smug. In Valjean's opinion, smugness implies vanity and an over-inflated sense of self-grandeur. No, Valjean did not do smug. But, sometimes he'll get pretty close. Suffice to say, he was rather proud of his solution to Grantaire and Enjolras's little problem. "I'm having them hold hands for half an hour."

"That's it?" Javert asked sounding flabbergasted. Sometimes he just did not understand the way that that man's brain worked. Every so often he would think 'Ah! I understand now!' and then Valjean was say something or do something that makes sense to only himself and Javert would be right back at square one. For the life of him, Javert could not understand Valjean's reasoning behind this latest stunt. "What do you hope to achieve here, Valjean?"

"I hope that they, through a small amount of forced intimacy, come to see past their differences and continue their friendship... or whatever it is they have."

"You're not their therapist, Jean. You're their headmaster. You should be punishing them!"

"Oh, Javert, I thought you'd have learnt by now that punishment is not really in my methodology. Yes, I am their headmaster. Therefore I will be teaching them, not punishing them." Javert clearly still didn't approve, but he kept his mouth shut; he knew that there really is no arguing with Jean Valjean when he decides on something like this. "If it makes you feel any better," Valjean continued, having decided to throw Javert a bone, "Going by the looks on their faces, neither of them were too thrilled about the idea. Perhaps it will be a punishment of sorts after all."

They were both silent for a few moments as they contemplated their current situation. Suddenly, Javert spoke. "You know it won't work, right? They'll still hate each other even after your so-called 'forced intimacy'."

"Respectfully, Javert, I disagree," Valjean said cooly as a thought struck him. "How about we make this interesting?" Javert raised his eyebrows as Valjean took his wallet out of his pocket. "I will give you twenty English pounds if Enjolras and Grantaire's relationship hasn't improved by tomorrow."

"We cannot bet on the personal lives of..." Javert trailed off and Valjean knew he had tempted him.

"We can, actually. We probably shouldn't, but what is a small wager between friends? It does not impact the students in any way, shape or form, therefore there is nothing wrong with it, really." Javert sent Valjean a disapproving look.

"Really, Valjean, I would have thought that you, of all people, would be above this."

"Well, it's been a long day. I seem to have sunk down to the level of softcore gambling. What do you say?" he asked. Javert sighed resignedly.

"If we're already gambling on the lives of the students, we might as well make it a little more interesting than just money." It was Valjean's turn to raise his eyebrow at Javert's suggestion.

"What do you suggest?" he asked his friend curiously.

"If the boys' relationship improves, as you think it will, I will give you £20 plus a whole week of bus duty."

Javert's offer was no joke. Anyone who lives or works in the vicinity of St Michel School knows and dreads Bus Time. Whilst the lower school and sixth form may be split between two campuses, the entire school congregates at the front of the sixth form every day of the school week at fifteen minutes past three in the afternoon and chaos ensues. There is a joke among the staff at the sixth form that the reason St Michel has the highest rate of participation in after-school activities and extra-curriculars in the country is that the students will take any opportunity to avoid this mass onslaught around the buses. Bus time is a time of anarchy and for Javert to have offered to deal with it every day for an entire week should he lose this bet... it truly shows how confident he is that Valjean's plan will fail.

"My my, Javert," Valjean said, sounding amused, "I never took you for a gambling man."

"Nor I, you, Sir. Do we have an agreement?" Valjean smiled as they shook hands.

"We most certainly do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the others at just over 1k, but I didn't want to take too much focus away from Grantaire and Enjolras's relationship as they are the main characters of this fic. 
> 
> I will try to have the next part out before Monday, though the next chapter is being somewhat a slippery fish when it comes to getting the words just right, so it may possibly end up being Tuesday instead. We'll see!
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the punishment and we get a little insight into the inner workings of the group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am genuinely surprised I managed to finish this before Monday. I thought I would end up having to apologise for not having it finished, but here we are! 
> 
> Enjoy!

Five Minutes Earlier

Grantaire has never been executed before and therefore does not know what it is like to walk to the gallows. He does not know how it feels to know that your death is imminent, though he imagines it can't feel that different to how he felt as he walked into the main corridor of the school, knowing what he was walking into. He never thought he'd be in a situation like that. Being forced to hold his crush’s hand as punishment for punching said crush in the face. To be completely fair to Grantaire, does anyone _ever_ think they’ll be in that situation? It was at times like these that he found himself wondering exactly what he did in his past life to deserve the absolute shit-show that this life had turned into.

Enjolras, much to his surprise, felt the same way as Grantaire. Not that he knew this of course. If he'd known, he would have probably felt a little better about the whole ordeal. The truth is, Enjolras was nervous. To those that know him, it is among the great facts of life.

  1. The sky is blue.
  2. Rain is wet.
  3. Javert is an asshole.
  4. Enjolras doesn’t get nervous about silly things.



When his friends are freaking out about a test, Enjolras will be comforted in the knowledge that he has done everything he can to do the best he can, and even if he hasn't, he knows that worrying will get him absolutely nowhere. That isn't to say that Enjolras doesn't get nervous. Far from it actually. He just saves his nerves for things that he deems significant enough to benefit from a small amount of worrying. Yet, to say that Enjolras was worried as the parade of three made its way to the main corridor, was the understatement of the year, possibly of the century.

As they walked, they attracted the attention of the student populous not only because they were walking in the wake of the headmaster, but also because they were both carrying a chair each. To Grantaire this only furthered his feeling that they were walking to their execution; making them carry their own chairs was eerily reminiscent, at least in Grantaire's opinion, of a man bound for the gallows being forced to tie his own noose.

Enjolras somewhat agreed, though he mostly disliked having to carry the chair because he found the whole tribulation woefully impractical. Why should he carry a chair halfway across the school when he could much more easily grab a couple out of one of the classrooms situated along the vast hallway where their punishment would take place?

 When the three of them arrived at their destination, they were surprised to find five other members of the ABC waiting for them there. Bahorel, Bossuet, Éponine, Joly, and Musichetta were all milling around in the hallway when the three approached. Well, Enjolras and Valjean were surprised.

Whilst Grantaire had certainly not been expecting this, this was not in itself an entirely impossible occurrence. The fact was that Éponine, Bahorel, Jehan, and Musichetta had somehow (and don't ask Grantaire how; he has no idea) managed to plant a bug somewhere in Valjean's office after Grantaire had begun to make visits there semi-frequently. This bug had allowed Grantaire to have almost no secrets from his friends and he owed a lifelong debt to whichever one of them had actually managed to plant it (his money was on Éponine). The five of them had spent many free periods (and some not free) at the nearby park after a particularly bad day. All of them knew that Grantaire wasn’t going to the office because he was misbehaving, but because Valjean was concerned for him, and they too were concerned.

Rumours were aflutter surrounding Grantaire’s home life. Everyone seemed to have an opinion and yet no one knew the facts for sure. Well, Les Amis weren’t having that. So, the bug was planted.

On bad days, they would talk about what was going on.

Or not.

Sometimes, days would come when Grantaire either couldn’t or wouldn’t speak to anyone, even them. On these days, they would talk at him about anything but what was going on and they would listen to music and cloud gaze until they had to go back to the real world. It was a welcome escape from whatever was happening in their lives, and not just for Grantaire. Every member of their little group had come to look forward to their excursions to the park because it meant no rules, no pressure, and no judgement.

Also, the games of truth or dare were _legendary_.

Sometimes Bossuet and Joly would be there too. At first, they had been apprehensive about the slightly-less-legal side of things, but Jehan and Éponine had argued until they were blue in the face that, whilst it may not be the legal thing to do, it was, in fact, the moral thing to do. After their impassioned arguing, it only took a light bout of encouragement from Musichetta for the two boys to wholeheartedly agree. There is only so much of that angrily passionate duo that even the strongest people can take before they begin to crumble. For Joly and Bossuet, it took less than twenty minutes.

Now, as Grantaire felt he was marching to his doom, the sight of his friends caused a great wave of relief to wash over him. Perhaps they were there to help him in some way? Or, perhaps they were there to watch the entire thing happen? Yep, that sounds more like his friends. As much as he loves them and they love him, he doesn’t doubt for a minute that they would sit back at a time like this and watch his sanity and social life collapse around him.

“Why aren’t you guys at the meeting?” Enjolras asked, his eyebrows furrowing as he set the chair in his arms down. _Fucking typical_ , thought Grantaire. Of course, that was what Enjolras was concerned about right at that moment. Of course, Enjolras wouldn’t be worried about having to hold hands with Grantaire. To him, it meant nothing. Actually, he probably thought he could make some sort of political statement about gay rights, or the justice system, or probably fucking anything if he tried, because he’s Enjolras and making a statement is just his _thing_.

Enjolras was desperate for something, anything to take his mind off his aching leg and aching heart.

Okay, maybe he was being a tad melodramatic, but really his leg was hurting from having to carry that atrocity of a chair across the school and he _really_ didn't like the fact that he and Grantaire had got into a real, actual fight. _And got caught to boot!_

To be honest, Enjolras struggled to remember what had actually happened when they were fighting. He knew that Grantaire had thrown the first punch and, at some point, he had reciprocated, but he couldn't actually remember doing it. All he knew for certain is that, right at that moment, guilt and residual anger were battling in his mind, and guilt was winning. So, in an effort to distract himself from his physical and emotional turmoil, Enjolras saw the opportunity his friends presented and took it eagerly.

No one answered Enjolras right away; Éponine had the floor and she was using it to glare at him ferociously. After the most intimidating few moments of Enjolras's life, Bahorel finally spoke up. "Something came up," he said simply and curtly. This concerned him immensely. He had never known Bahorel to be so cryptic or so brusque in his obvious anger.

In Enjolras's mind, this meant one of two things. 1. Bahorel is in a fight club, or 2. They must be really pissed at him. Whilst, option 2 may realistically be more likely, Enjolras knew Bahorel well enough to know that that option 1 is never impossible. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras could have sworn he caught Grantaire smirking at that. _The plot thickens_ , he thought.

Enjolras made a mental note to ask him about later, provided they get on better terms, of course. He really hoped they would.

 

"While you're here," Valjean said suddenly, looking between the teens with a curious glint in his eye, "unless you have somewhere to be, we could use a witness or two."

" _Oh_ ," Éponine said her cheeky tone unmistakably present, "Are they _finally_ going to tie the knot?" Valjean chuckled warmly and sighed.

"Afraid not. We're here for their punishment. Of course, you already knew that," he said slyly, looking between Musichetta, Bahorel, and Éponine. Bahorel flushed slightly and Musichetta shuffled her feet nervously, but Éponine kept her cool, a small smirk still on her face.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Sir."

"No, of course, you don't." He didn't believe her clever lies for one second. Any fool could see that. Yet, he did not push and, instead, decided to focus on one thing at a time. "Well, here seems as good a spot as any!" He gestured for Grantaire to put his chair down as Enjolras already had. "Take a seat, gentlemen," he commanded politely. The two boys sat on their chairs, Enjolras avoiding looking his friends in the eyes and Grantaire trying valiantly to remember how a normal human being sits on a chair as the information seemed to have disappeared from his head just as he needed it the most. Fucking typical.

The chairs themselves were of the uncomfortable plastic breed that came exclusively in schools and slightly underfunded church youth groups. The fact that they were easily stackable even in the most dilapidated condition, must be the only selling point of those things because these chairs - and to call them that is generous - are not comfortable in any way, shape, or form and make the most irritating squeaking noises if the occupant moves themselves even slightly, a fact that the more disruptive members of the school relish and exploit during exams when every single creak and squeak can be heard crystal clear. There are many things in this world that irritate Enjolras considerably, too many to list, but he truly hopes that whomsoever invented that arse-receptacle of a chair is rotting in hell where they belong.

It goes without saying that the loud creak that the chairs made as the two of them sat down served to make the atmosphere of their small bubble in the hallway about ten times more awkward.

"Alright, gentlemen! You know what you have to do." The bright smile on Valjean's face was probably meant to be encouraging and reassuring, Grantaire thought, but all it did is make him wonder whether Valjean is some kind of sadist.

The gap between the two chairs was about half a foot wide and so made facilitated the necessity for the boys to have to reach out for each other in a way that made it absolutely unavoidable to acknowledge that they were now, in fact, holding hands. The embarrassment was evident on their cheeks. The bright blush was especially evident on Enjolras’s paler skin. For possibly the first time, Grantaire was grateful for his darker skin as it hid the raging blush that he was sure spread from the tips of his ears to his back.

Just before their hands actually touched, the exact same train of thought rushed through both of their heads at a million miles an hour. This train was offensively loud and seemed to only be saying two things over and over again: 'Holy shit I'm going to hold his hand' and 'Jesus Christ why are my hands so sweaty?' In movies and books when they talk about time slowing down before or as something happens, Enjolras has never understood it. How can time slow down? Now he gets it. It's like your brain is trying to nope its way out of an inevitable situation for as long as it can. Although Enjolras in general tries to run towards his problems, furious words and old-fashioned pitchfork in hand, this is one of the only situations he had ever faced that made him just want to run away and hide at the back of the library with a copy of a complex book about 19th century politics and read all of his problems away. Of course, this nervousness that he felt only served to make his hands sweatier and therefore make him more nervous about how sweaty they are.

Grantaire, on the other hand (no pun intended), knew exactly how sweaty his hands were, and yes, whilst they are definitely more sweaty from how nervous he was to hold Enjolras's hand, he was confident in his ability to bullshit about how had run to the ABC meeting and that was probably why he was so sweaty. The nasty little voice in the back of his mind filled with vitriol suggested that saying that would make Enjolras feel guilty about having yelled at him for being late, but he decided to ignore that voice, just as he does the majority of the time. Something else his mind does the majority of the time: obsess over Enjolras. As the train in his head was screeching 'Holy shit I'm going to hold his hand' Grantaire was reminded of every other time he obsessed over every single thing Enjolras did that he found attractive: when he speaks so passionately that he runs his hands through his hair, when he death-stares anyone who makes an offensive comment, when he gets so tired that not even coffee can help him and he falls asleep of Courfeyrac's lap... the list could go on and on. The guy could do anything and Grantaire would worship the ground that he walks on, if Enjolras would permit it.

Overall, the few seconds leading up to them joining hands were hell. The actual handholding, however, was fairly anticlimactic.

It didn’t feel strange or even vaguely abnormal for either of them, it just felt ordinary. Ironically, the only reason either of them was uncomfortable, was their beliefs that the other was uncomfortable. If they would just communicate, this punishment would be significantly less unpleasant for the both of them. However, communication isn’t, and has never been, their forte. Consequently, the two boys almost writhed in embarrassment. They weren’t embarrassed to hold hands in theory, it was the leering stares of the other students in the hallway as they passed that steeped them in embarrassment.

“Right!” Valjean continued, unaware of their silent suffering, “You may speak, but only to each other, not to anyone around you. Éponine? Bahorel? You both have free periods next, yes?” The two pupils nodded. “Good. You can stay here with them for twenty minutes after the bell goes to make sure they ‘carry out their sentence’, as Monsieur Javert would say. Musichetta, you are in Grantaire’s next class, aren’t you? Could you inform Monsieur Mabeuf that Grantaire will not be attending today’s lesson as he is doing something for me and that he is to be emailed any materials handed out in the lesson if you please? Joly, if you would be so kind as to tell Dr Lamarque the same for Enjolras. Thank you.” Valjean turned back to Enjolras and Grantaire with a small, sincere smile on his face. “I do hope you work this out, gentlemen. A relationship like yours is a rare thing to gain and a horrible thing to lose.”

With that, Valjean turned and left for his office, leaving both Grantaire and Enjolras wondering as to what he actually meant in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! The punishment has begun!
> 
> I struggled to find the right words for this chapter, that's why I thought it would take much longer than it did. Also, I am weirdly busy during the days at the moment and so the only time I can sit down and have a proper go at writing this is at two in the morning when the only things that come out of my brain are incoherent at best. Oops. BTW "arse-receptacle" was a 3am creation. Hope you liked it. 
> 
> PS. I headcannon Grantaire as half Italian (his mother's side, if you're curious) and half something else (he hates his dad and doesn't particularly care enough to ask).  
> As always, Kudos and comments are appreciated and, frankly, make my day!


	5. A Brief Informative Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick information dump of all of the subjects that the characters (the ones in the upper school) took and why they took them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been struggling with a small bout of writers' block recently, nothing too serious, but it's been tough to write and so I thought I'd give this a go. I thought this might be helpful to those of you beautiful people reading this to sort of understand the universe and characterisations I've gone for here.
> 
> Enjoy!

A Quick Brief on the A Levels System for Those Unfamiliar

A Levels are Advanced Level qualifications that most people in England (I can't speak for the rest of the UK as I don't know) have to take after their GCSEs. A Levels can be taken at a college, which tends to provide more vocational courses, or at a sixth form, like our characters. Some people choose to take an apprenticeship instead of pure A Levels, but due to a change in law a few years ago, people under 18 must remain in education therefore apprenticeships must have some kind of training or education alongside. A Levels are for people ages 16-18 and are in most cases required for entrance into universities. Universities accept students based on three grades and say that the grades must be, for example, BBA for entrance to be admitted (BBA being two B's and an A).

You can either take three or four A Levels, but most people take three as the workload is huge compared to secondary school workload. This is why almost every time a character has taken four subjects instead of three I have felt the need to explain it as this is not the standard. In fact, many sixth forms actively encourage you to take four subjects and drop your least favourite a month in, something that I have thought was sensible as systems go.  

The grading system has recently been changed in the UK, but it's dumb and, for the sake of this fic, I'm going to pretend it didn't happen and continue with the 'A, B, C, D, E, U' system because Michael Gove is a twat (this is barely relevant to this, but it necessary to point out).

Here we go! 

 

**Enjolras**

  * Politics, Philosophy, Economics, Sociology
  * Originally, he chose four options with the intention of dropping his least favourite after a couple of months, but he fell too far in love with them to even contemplate dropping any one of them.
  * He desperately wants to make the world a better place and so wants to learn as much about people and about the world as he can.



**Grantaire**

  * Art, Economics, Core Maths
  * He saw no point in taking four subjects only to drop one of them and make it so one particular teacher will hate him until the end of time and so only took three subjects from the get-go.
  * He hates maths with a burning passion and is glad that he only has to do it for one year but thinks that it is one year too long.
  * To be honest, he only took Core Maths because some asshole told him it would make Economics easier. Liar.
  * Art is the only subject he actually cares about and is the personal favourite of his teacher (she will sometimes let him nap in her room during a free period when he looks like he hasn’t slept in a year).



**Bossuet**

  * Engineering, Politics, English Language
  * Two of his first-choice classes were filled up and so he had to switch out Psychology for Politics and English Literature for English Language.
  * Loves engineering the most out of all his options despite how many times he manages to hurt himself or pick up the nickel (which he is very allergic to) by accident in the lessons.



**Joly**

  * Biology, Chemistry, Further Maths, Economics
  * Originally, he planned to drop one of his options, but he was too anxious about dropping one and regretting it later and so had to continue all of them despite being so stressed about school all of the time.
  * He wants to be a doctor or lab technician for the sole purpose of curing ALL of the diseases that exist currently and will in the future.



**Musichetta**

  * Food Preparation and Nutrition, English Language, Philosophy
  * She has worked at the Musain Café for four years and so is top of her class in Food Preparation.
  * She is fascinated by how things work and so very much enjoys finding out about how language develops, how people think, and how food actually goes from raw to cooked on a molecular level.
  * Despite coming to St. Michel from another school, she already knew everyone from working at the Musain and then got to know them better when she started dating Bossuet and Joly and was then invited to join the ABC as their first out-of-school member.



**Cosette**

  * Politics, Philosophy, Psychology, English Literature
  * Like most of the members of the ABC, she wants to make the world a better place and she wants to do it as a lawyer, but she insists that lawyers can be passionate about classic romance literature as well as law.
  * She came to St. Michel a year after Valjean did because he became head of the sixth form right as she began year 11 and she did not want to move schools just before beginning her exams.
  * She is the latest addition to Les Amis, having been part of the group for only five months, after being invited in by Marius just before they started dating. Before then, she knew most of them but only really spoke to Enjolras in debates, Éponine was the only person she would have considered a friend before joining Les Amis de l’ABC.



**Marius**

  * Politics, Physics, Engineering
  * Unlike when he took his GCSEs, he was actually allowed by his grandfather to choose his own subjects as long as they were “employable”.
  * Despite not being able to take English Literature or Music like he had wanted to, Marius actually has come to like the subjects he ended up taking and credits his Politics class as the reason he is going out with Cosette.



**Bahorel**

  * PE, Biology, Philosophy
  * Bahorel had not wanted to do A Levels at all before he did his GCSEs, but a teacher (surprisingly Javert, though he would never tell any of the other Les Amis that) persuaded him to vent to frustrations he felt about life in general would be well suited to being vented through PE. Surprisingly, he loved PE at GCSE and discovered a love and fascination of the human body through it.
  * Now he wants to be a physical therapist ideally, but he hasn’t ruled out the option of becoming a bouncer because, in his words, “I don’t know, it seems pretty cool being paid to throw dickheads out of bars.”
  * He surprised everyone when he took Philosophy and even more when he turned out to be amazing at it, as far as you can be amazing at a subjective subject like Philosophy. He truly is an enigma.



**Éponine**

  * English Literature, Economics, Core Maths, Health and Social Care
  * In the middle of year 10 she developed a rather fantastic “fuck you”-attitude towards not caring about what people think of her and stopped trying to hide her love for literature and so achieved marks in the top ten percent of the country in English Literature. Suffice to say, she felt it would be in her best interests to continue with the subjects.
  * She also genuinely loves Economics as a subject, Health and Social Care even more so, and looks forward to being able to use them when she becomes a social worker when she’s older.
  * She took Core Maths because, like Grantaire, she was told that it would make Economics easier and hates it with a passion. Once, she tried to drop it but Grantaire literally tackled her to the floor before she could ask Valjean about dropping it because he insists that they suffer through the ordeal together.



**Feuilly**

  * Biology, Politics, English Literature, Sociology
  * Feuilly is afraid of closing any doors for the future and wants to keep as many options open to him as possible so as to not risk blocking a pathway that he might need to take at some point in the future. To avoid this he took four wildly different options.
  * He also wants to make his CV look at as good as it can so that his scholarship applications for university will have a greater chance of being approved as he wants to be able to not be in debt after university and be financially stable, something he has never been his entire life.



**Combeferre**

  * Biology, Chemistry, Politics
  * He also loves Psychology and Philosophy, but only wanted to take three options to make sure that he does them to the best of his ability, without the distraction of a subject that won’t make any different to him in his future as a doctor.
  * Helping people has always been Combeferre’s aim and a passion for science in the lower school led him to want to be a doctor and help people when they are at their worst.



**Courfeyrac**

  * Drama, English Literature, Politics, Philosophy
  * Courfeyrac doesn’t seem like the type, on first glance, to take four A Levels, but his close friends weren’t even slightly surprised when he told them; he has always been so hardworking, though perhaps not the most focussed person on the face of the earth.
  * No one was surprised at the subjects he took either, Courf has always been a DramaticBitchTM and passionate about making things better in the world and he will use all of the dramatic flair at his disposal to make that happen.



**Jehan**

  * English Literature, Philosophy, Drama, Psychology
  * Jehan without literature is like the sun without heat.
  * They believe that Drama is literature come to life and should be respected and revered the same way that literature is. No one really has the heart to tell them that most people don’t respect literature as much as they do.
  * Jehan has a philosophical brain and has spent many a-night laid awake pondering the state of the universe and once spent an entire week responding to any questions they were asked with “Why?” Despite never having picked up a Philosophy book in their life, they deem this suitable enough qualification to do an A Level in it.
  * They never had an interest in Psychology before watching Sherlock, but decided to take in nevertheless because “Why not?” The truth is, they just want to be able to psychoanalyze people in the street.



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this isn't a proper chapter but, like I said, I've been struggling with writer's block. However, I wanted to maintain this semi-regular upload schedule that seems to have happened and so I felt I should upload at least something to do with this fic even if it isn't a proper chapter. To make up for this, the next chapter is going to be longer than the others and I will try to have it done and uploaded by Sunday. I hope you understand!
> 
> As always, Kudos and Comments are appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The punishment continues and a sort of truce is accomplished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me! I got it done in time to stick to my semi-regular posting schedule (roughly every three days if you haven't caught on)! 
> 
> Enjoy!

After Valjean disappeared back into his office, people immediately began to get their phones out to capture the scene in front of them. Most were taking pictures, some were taking videos and a few especially douchey ones were taking selfies with the mortified boys. It all became so much that Grantaire felt he had to hide his face from the assholes around him by leaning into the crook of his elbow. Enjolras, however, had his head held high, ready to glare anyone into submission should they try anything more malicious than a simple, though unethical, selfie.

Thankfully for Enjolras and Grantaire, they had their friends there with them. Though these particular friends were a little pissed off at Enjolras and thought that they both deserved to suffer a bit for their mutual stupidity, there was no way that any of them would allow this for long. Even the skittish Joly seemed to be getting more and more pissed off by the second.

"Okay, that's it," Musichetta said abruptly, pulling herself away from the crowd that had amassed around the scene. "'Ponine, 'Rel, you know what you have to do." Suddenly, Bahorel and Éponine appeared on either side of Enjolras and Grantaire, blocking the crowd's view. The crowd made a collective groaning sound and one moron even shouted at Éponine "Oi! Don't be a bitch! Out the way!"

Well, you can imagine was she threatened to do to him.

On seconds thoughts, don't. Do not imagine what she threatened to do to that poor dickhead. It's too graphic, even in concept.

Suffice to say, the crowd mostly dissipated after that. Bahorel cast a large and imposing shadow, Éponine's reputation preceded her and Musichetta had taken it upon herself to describe with horrifying medical accuracy (backed up by Joly, Bossuet, and Joly's medical encyclopaedia) just how she could maim, murder and institutionalise anyone who tried her patience.

The overwhelming threat of the stupidity of the student populous now more or less gone, Grantaire was forced to confront the reality of his situation with little to distract him from it. As cathartic as that may sound, it wasn’t. All confronting his reality did was make Grantaire want to scream about the whole thing to his pseudo-therapy-group of friends at the park with tequila and weed to ease the way, instead, he was stuck here. He couldn't even talk to Éponine to get his mind off it because the only person he was allowed to talk to was Enjolras! And, maybe Grantaire isn't the _best_ in social situations, but he was fairly sure that yelling into the face of someone who hates you about how much you love them isn't the socially acceptable thing to do! All in all, it was intensely frustrating.

For all he kept his head held high, Enjolras was screaming internally. With all the frustration that he was feeling, he was sure that he could write an essay ten pages long explaining how this form of punishment is unethical within the school environment and doesn’t contribute anything of value to the punished students’ educations. Not to mention that along with all of that running through his head Enjolras’s neck had begun to itch. And, to top it all off, the specific area of his neck that was itchy was such that it would involve him having to contort in some strange and even stranger looking ways if he was to try with the hand not currently attached to Grantaire. Enjolras spent the next five minutes trying to will the itch on his neck to go away through The Force in a fit of petty determination to not ask for Grantaire for help.

Finally, he had to give in.

“Uh…” he began before clearing his throat to alleviate the hoarseness that had built up in his voice through lack of use, “My neck itches.”

“And…?” Grantaire asked, wondering why that was where Enjolras wanted to begin this conversation.

“I, uh, was just wondering if you could, uh, move a little closer so I could, you know, scratch my neck?” Enjolras was sure that that was the least eloquent he’d sounded in the last five years. He simply hated how awkward Grantaire made him feel. Why couldn’t he just see Grantaire as he does the rest of his friends? Oh. Right. Those feelings. When the feelings had first developed, Enjolras had been sure that they would pass. Courfeyrac had said they would and he had much more experience in this area than Enjolras. Then again, listening to Courfeyrac’s advice was in general a fraught venture at least. Courf being wrong isn’t a particularly rare occurrence, but, on this occasion, Enjolras had so hoped that he would be right. When two years later the feelings were still there, Enjolras was at a loss for what to do. He had never had a problem, especially one like this, that he was unable to solve and, yet, here he was. Helpless as to what to do. And so he did his best to ignore it. He compensated in meetings when Grantaire said something cheeky or did something to distract everyone by being hard on him, probably harder than he should have been, but what else could he do? He couldn't act on his feelings; Grantaire hated him!  He was sure Grantaire hated him, after all, if he didn't, why did he sigh so dramatically before inching his chair closer to Enjolras's?

With Grantaire so much closer now, it was a little easier for Enjolras to touch his neck, but he ran into another problem. Seeing as he was holding Grantaire's hand, he couldn't actually do the scratching part. Fucking fantastic. "Uh... Grantaire?"

"Yes, Apollo?" Grantaire said dramatically, as though he was answering the register in primary school, and Enjolras rolled his eyes almost involuntarily.

"I can't scratch my neck. Would you mind doing it for me?" Now it was Grantaire's turn to roll his eyes. Nevertheless, he obliged. "A little to the left," Enjolras prompted. Grantaire chuckled under his breath and followed the order. "Lower." He went lower. "Lower." And again. "Lower."

"Jesus, Apollo!" Grantaire said chuckling, "If I go any lower I might have to start charging you for my services!"

Grantaire had always been proud of his ability to make Enjolras blush using his stupid jokes. In _his_ eyes, it was his only practical skill. Painting, boxing, dancing? All worthless. But he could make Enjolras blush. Something he had only seen happen a few times when he wasn't the cause and every single time it had been from pure rage. The same way that Grantaire saw white when he got angry, Enjolras turned red. He went red from the extensive shouting and gesturing and general lecturing he did when something really got him angry. Another thing that Grantaire was proud of was his track record of only having made his face go red from rage once. At the beginning of that day, Grantaire’s record of making Enjolras blush was perfect. Thinking of the event of earlier that day, Grantaire shifted his focus back to Enjolras in the present – he was still blushing the same pink, embarrassed hue.

After Grantaire obliged in scratching Enjolras’s neck (successfully this time) they sat in silence for a couple of minutes before Enjolras felt obliged to say something. At this point, the hall had mainly cleared as the warning bell had sent the majority of students ambling reluctantly in the general directions of their lessons and so he felt a little less awkward about actually talking about their current situation. “I’m sorry for what I did in the meeting. It wasn’t cool,” he said hoping that Grantaire would forgive him quickly so at least some of the awkwardness would be alleviated.

“Which one?” Grantaire asked pointedly. Ah. He seemed to not be so eager to clear the whole thing up as he was. At least that was what Enjolras thought.

Enjolras isn’t aware of _quite_ how wrong he is.

Grantaire wanted this over with, make no mistake, but he was still a little sore about everything Enjolras had said and, despite years now of trying to drown them in alcohol or sarcasm, he still had feelings and they had been hurt.

Along with his hand.

God, his hand hurt.

His lip wasn’t too bad as long as he didn’t smile. So, no risk there, then.

He also had a strange kind of morbid curiosity about how many of Enjolras’s various insults he had actually meant. By this point, he’d known Enjolras almost nine years and was quite familiar with how abysmal his social skills really were. Sure, the guy might be able to deliver inspiring and tear-jerking speeches at the drop of a hat, but you should hear him try to order something at Starbucks without having rehearsed what to say in his head ten times. Point is, Grantaire genuinely wasn’t sure whether he was even slightly justified in punching Enjolras and, to be honest, that kind of scared him. It’s like watching a movie and finding out you’ve been rooting for the wrong person the whole time – “Wait… is Loki the bad guy??” – except, it’s more “Wait… am I the bad guy??”

“When I called you out in front of the entire group. That wasn’t cool. You came in quietly and didn’t disturb anyone but me and I shouldn’t have been such an asshole about it. I’m sorry,” Enjolras replied, looking into Grantaire’s eyes with an almost scary kind of intensity. The amount of sincerity in his voice just about made Grantaire want to look away and hide his face from facing the bruise blooming on Enjolras’s cheekbone, but he found that he couldn’t. Enjolras may be an awkward son a bitch some of the time, but dammit if his passion for pretty much anything can’t put the phrase ‘burns with the fire of one thousand suns’ to shame.

“Yeah,” Grantaire responded, finding his voice, “That wasn’t cool. I’m sorry for saying that you don’t try. That’s clearly bullshit. Like, I only know one person who tries harder than you at school and that’s Joly.”

Various members of Les Amis de l’ABC had found Joly asleep with his head in a textbook and notes in his lap in numerous nooks and crannies around the school. Once, Bossuet and Musichetta even found him asleep in the drama studio (a classroom he has never had any classes in) in a giant plastic orb made for some production the theatre department was putting on at the beginning of the year. Many pictures were taken that day and, to this day, those pictures remain the contact photos for Joly in the phones of no fewer than seven of Les Amis (Enjolras, Grantaire, Feuilly, Bahorel, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Cosette) and the only reason it isn’t more of them is that Gavroche, Éponine, and Jehan somehow managed to get even more embarrassing pictures of him for theirs.

“Thank you,” he said honestly, “And I’m also sorry for saying _you_ don’t try.”

“At least when you said it, it was true,” Grantaire said quietly, looking down at his free hand and seeing the way the knuckle of his little finger had begun to swell slightly. Enjolras suddenly looked very angry. Not ‘turn as red as his converse’ angry, but angry enough that Grantaire thought maybe he was going to get punched again.

“Stop it,” he commanded, turning his head to face him using his free hand so that Grantaire had no choice but to look into his eyes as he spoke. “Why do you say things like that about yourself? You know it’s not true.” Enjolras’s tone was so fierce; Grantaire didn’t understand why he cared so much, after all, didn’t Enjolras hate him?

“It is true, though. I’m not academically brilliant like you, Combeferre, Joly, or Feuilly. I don’t see things in the same analytical way that the rest of you do. I’m just… _below average_.” Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but Grantaire cut him off quickly. “It’s true. Face it, Apollo. I’m mediocre at best.”

Over Grantaire’s shoulder, Enjolras could see where Éponine and Bahorel had settled themselves off to the side, pretending not to hear what was being said. To Enjolras’s surprise, they looked as shocked as he felt. He would have thought that Grantaire’s best friends would have heard him talk about himself in this manner any number of times (the amount of self-deprecating humour the guy used was beyond concerning at this point), but clearly, this level of frankness coming from him was new to them too. Bahorel’s mouth hung open in a way that would have been comical if not for the circumstances and Éponine’s usually neutral expression was creased and unhappy at the edges, the façade was cracking. In looking at them, Enjolras decided to delve forward, if not to abate his own curiosity, then to placate their worries. 

“What’s brought this on, Grantaire. You usually just crack a joke, make fun of my optimism and then yourself… I’ve never seen you like this. Why? _What happened?”_ Enjolras placed a comforting hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and gave him a small Valjean-esque, hopefully, reassuring smile.

The moment his self-deprecating words left his mouth, Grantaire had known that he had said too much. He’d let on too much about how bad everything was getting. He now had two choices: backpedal the _shit_ out of this situation, or dive down the rabbit hole and bare his soul to the one guy that he had ever actually cared about.

Well... In for a penny.

"It's not exactly been a good day. I mean, it was bad before I punched you in the face, I really am sorry about that by the way. Punching you has just added yet another thing to my list of shit things that have happened recently."

"How do you mean?" Here we go, Grantaire thought.

"Well, I hit you, I'm hungover, politically speaking the country is a mess, I've just found out I'm failing maths, and my dad is being one hell of a cunt at the moment," Grantaire said as he counted each item on his list off on his fingers. Enjolras looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking.

"I've forgiven you for hitting me and your hangover will pass with time and a strong cup of coffee. That's two of your problems solved or on the way to being solved. As for the country, well... it might be fucked at the moment, but if we're loud enough about how pissed off we are, we can't go ignored by those in power for much longer." This was a side to Enjolras's passion for politics that Grantaire hadn't really seen before. Sure, he'd seen Enjolras chew out douchebags in the corridor without a moments notice, but this was different. He had no one to impress, no one to persuade. This was just the two of them commiserating together at the state of the world. Maybe their opposing ideologies, scepticism and optimism, clash, but in the end, they both want the same thing: for things to be better and despite their differences, right at that moment, neither of them had anything to prove.

There was simple, _base_ desperation in his voice, barely hidden as the hope seeped through. This hope, desperation, passion, faith that things must get better... all of it shown on his face and...

Grantaire wasn't sure he'd _ever_ seen him more beautiful.

It crossed his mind at the time, that he could just lean in and press his lips to the nerve-bitten ones mere inches away.

Of course, he didn't.

Neither of them said anything for a minute or so. Though, this was not the stubborn, awkward silence that had sprung forth from their situation, but a heavy one, full of implications and things left unsaid. Enjolras looked at Grantaire and thought about kissing him. Silly, really. Like that would ever happen. In theory, it could, he reasoned, he could physically kiss Grantaire, but they weren't together. They weren't even friends. They were debate partners at best. And this crippling reality somehow broke Enjolras's heart. Still, he tried to move through it. What better way to avoid your own pain than to focus on someone else's?

"And," he continued, clearing his throat a little, "regarding the maths, worst comes to worst, I can always tutor you." Grantaire raised his eyebrows at that and Enjolras was quick to amend his statement, reminding himself that they were not, in fact, friends. "Or Combeferre, in case you're not comfortable with me tutoring you. Bossuet's also very good at maths and so is Marius. You could also ask Joly, but he's stressed enough as it is; I wouldn't want him to be put under any more pressure than he already is."

"Why wouldn't I be comfortable with you tutoring me?" Grantaire asked, confused, "We're sort of friends, aren't we?"

"We are?" Enjolras looked up suddenly, his back unslouching itself, and viewed Grantaire's somewhat bashful face with unbridled hope in his eyes.

"The ABC are the only friends I have," Grantaire stated plainly. He continued with newfound courage in his heart. "I know you hate me and that's okay, I hate me too, but if you're interested I'd like to try to be..." Grantaire paused, trying to find his voice while also repressing everything that wanted to pour out of his soul, "To be friends. Officially... so to speak."

"Grantaire..." Enjolras was lost for words. And that was something that didn't happen very often. Grantaire looked away abruptly and opened his mouth as though to retract his offer of friendship. No, Enjolras was not letting this go. "Grantaire, I would love to be your friend. Officially."

"Uh, I would shake your hand, Apollo, but I, uh, think we're a little bit past that point," he said, holding up their connected hands and giving them a light shake to emphasise his point. Enjolras laughed, nodded and squeezed Grantaire's hand in what was his first official friendly gesture.

The two boys continued to look at each other, both content to just be in that moment of serenity for a while longer. Éponine and Bahorel watched from the sidelines curiously. Well, Bahorel was curious. Éponine, on the other hand, was clinging to something that Grantaire had said.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that you two have worked everything out," she began, her hands up in a sign that she was ready to defend her interruption should she need to, "But, R, about what you said earlier... What has your dad done?" Her voice went soft at the end, in a way that Enjolras was sure he hadn't heard it before. It was like she was endeavouring not to scare off a woodland creature.

His recently gained expression of happiness fell almost immediately. Enjolras thought that perhaps Grantaire was going to drop his hand and make a run for it, but, instead, he felt his hand being squeezed harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned on this being an even longer chapter, even though in the state it's in it's the longest one so far, but I felt a little suspense is good for the heart. Gets the blood pumping. Not too suspenseful, though. I am a delicate flower at heart. 
> 
> I'm so glad to have been able to write them finally communicating with each other a little more! One step closer!
> 
> As always, Kudos and Comments are certainly appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's life is revealed to be worse than we thought and the punishment ends... or does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end now! There are probably only around two more chapters left of this fic, so let's try an resolve some of this conflict shall we? Maybe...
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> TW: Homophobia

They were all looking at Grantaire expectantly, none of them even trying to conceal the concern they felt for their friend. If Grantaire was at all interested in psychology, he would be fascinated to find out what horrifying mental problems he has that made the sight of his friends being concerned for his well-being inspire the levels of anxiety that had begun to pulse through his chest. Keep it together, he thought to himself, you are not obligated to tell them anything you don’t want them to know.

"R?" Bahorel prompted, having not got an answer from Grantaire thus far and looking as worried as Enjolras suddenly felt, "Has he done something?"

"When _hasn't_ he done something?" Grantaire answered, painting on a smile. If the three other teens hadn't known Grantaire for as long as they had, they almost would have bought it. But, knowing him as they did, it was plain to see: the smile was crooked and forced and, if they had only just met Grantaire, they would have said that it was somewhat akin to a smirk, but it was nowhere near joyful. Enjolras doesn't see Grantaire smile a lot, but when he is blessed with the rare sight, they are nothing like this. They are joyful and toothy and genuinely make his blue eyes sparkle like an anime character and make Enjolras wish that he could see him smiling all of the time.

This was nothing like those smiles.

"Grantaire," Enjolras said, his tone slightly warning, "Be serious. _Has_ your father done something bad?"

"You wound me, Apollo. I am always serious."

"Grantaire," he admonished Grantaire’s lackadaisical attitude.

Grantaire looked over to Éponine. He wasn't entirely sure whether he did this to gauge her opinion of the entire situation (he hadn't had a chance to as yet) or in a desperate search to find a single person who wasn't going to reem him to the edge of sanity in order to find out the latest shitty development in his wildly subpar life. It doesn't matter. All he found on Éponine's face was the same worry and concern he saw on the other two.

"R," she began, "Whatever it is, we can deal with it like we always do," the reassuring notes in her voice were overshadowed by worry and Grantaire felt tremendous guilt for giving her more to worry about on top of her already full plate. Éponine always tried to maintain a disguise of neutrality and very few people had ever seen it fall, but Grantaire had known her almost his entire life; he can tell that she is nearing the edge. Despite this and the guilt, it made him feel, Grantaire couldn’t help what tumbled out of his mouth next.

"I thought you two weren't supposed to talk to us?" He was being snarky, he knew that he was, but it was, in a way, his last line of defence before the walls come tumbling down and the depressing truth is revealed.

"R, if you don't stop joking around and tell us what happened I swear to God that I will have 'Rel torture the answer out of you."

"Oh yeah? And how would he do that? He left his bag at home again, so the pliers are out of the question."

"Personal history does have its benefits," Bahorel interjected. Grantaire pointed an accusing finger at him, wishing that he had the energy and emotion stability to joke around with his friends.

"Don't do that, dude. Don't quote musicals at me when I'm in a bad mood."

"Then don't be an asshole and tell us what happened," Éponine countered, bringing a rather rumpled feather out of her pocket and passing it pointedly to Bahorel.

Enjoras watched the exchange curiously, his expressions telling his whole emotional journey plainly and without resistance. First, worry. Then, more worry as Éponine brought up the subject of torture (he was ready to interject at any moment with a string of facts about how torture has proven to be ineffectual in producing reliable answers). Next, amusement at the reference (Courf had made him watch Spies Are Forever a few months before) and at Grantaire's not-so-subtle implication that Bahorel carries pliers around with him for the sole purpose of torturing him. Finally, an expression of determination cemented itself on his face as he resolved to understand exactly what is happening and how he can fix it.

"Grantaire," Enjolras said once Éponine and Bahorel had left a lull in the string of threats for some glaring and threatening gestures with the feather, "Please."

Enjolras's was begging.

There's no way around it: he somehow reduced the great Apollo to begging. Grantaire was sure he could actually hear his heart shatter a little more as he heard it.

The desperate yet determined expression that he saw on his face didn't help either; he had only seen it before when Enjolras was talking passionately in ABC meetings about homophobia and classism and the harm that the far-right is doing to the country's political landscape. It astounded Grantaire that he was able to inspire the same passion in their noble leader's face and, honestly, he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't dreaming this whole scenario.

Really. He's had weirder dreams.

The dreams would have to wait though because, somehow, this was, in fact, his reality and, at that point in time, he was fairly sure that this is the reality that God abandoned. It must be, after all, Enjolras begging for the sake of Grantaire’s safety or happiness or whatever is surely a sign of the apocalypse. It comes right between rains of fire and seas of blood. Still, whatever prophesied event that might indicate, Enjolras begging was still Enjolras begging and it was close to making Grantaire spill every secret he has ever had if that would be what it takes to make him stop. 

The walls were crumbling around Grantaire's resolve and it was easy for Éponine to see.

Any minute now, he was going to give up and tell them, she was sure of it. The oracle of Delphi never had anywhere near the kind of accuracy in her predictions that Éponine had when Grantaire finally spoke. She had counted down to the second the first syllable came out of his mouth with frightening precision.

3…

2…

1...

"He kicked me out again."

There it was.

Enjolras was shocked, to say the least. Sure, the whole school knew that Grantaire's father was an asshole. Once, in year eight, the guy had shown up to a play that Grantaire was in and at the end very publicly yelled that he wouldn't have a queer for a son and then dragged him by the arm back into their car. Grantaire hadn't shown up to school for a week after that and, when he did, he'd looked exhausted beyond belief and his complexion had been pallid in a way that made him look as though he had some sort of disease. He hadn't spoken to anyone but Éponine or Jehan for three weeks after that, he'd even ignored teachers. After that, though, he had gone back to pretty much normal: he answered back sarcastically in lessons, he punched some asshole who made a homophobic comment towards Jehan, he argued with Enjolras, and he skipped lessons to go to the park with Bahorel, Éponine and Jehan. To outside eyes, it seemed like it was over. Enjolras had so desperately wanted to believe that it was over that he had convinced himself that Grantaire was safe. In hindsight, he had been a moron.

Suddenly, his train of thought ground to a halt. Wait. Did he say _'again'?_

Éponine and Bahorel, on the other hand, weren't even slightly surprised.

It had been two months since the last time Grantaire's father had kicked him out. Every few months, Grantaire would show up at Éponine’s house in the middle of the night, mostly his dad had thrown him out, but sometimes Grantaire just couldn’t stand being in the same house as that man for another second. The first few times it had happened, he had knocked on her bedroom window and timidly asked if it was okay if he slept on the floor, now, though, she left the window unlocked for him and he would just climb into bed with her without a word. To Grantaire, it didn’t matter that staying with the Thénardiers was rising business, to say the least. Éponine’s house was a tranquil oasis compared to what he left and even on the days when the house was too chaotic for them to stay the night, they would take Gavroche and escape to Bahorel’s. That was how their friendship worked.

They were two of the five people who knew what actually happened that week he wasn’t at school in year eight. 

After the night of the play, it had taken four days for the bruising to fade enough for him to cover them with makeup he borrowed from Éponine. Another day after that for his father to let him back in the house. Then he had spent the remaining three days until he had to go back to school sitting silently at the park with a bottle of tequila in his hand¹, waiting and wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

Éponine and Bahorel may have not been particularly surprised by his eventual confession, but the way that Grantaire told them was, to them, more cause for concern than his sudden lack of a place to sleep.

“That’s it?” Bahorel asked sceptically.

“What do you mean ‘ _that’s it?_ ’!” Enjolras practically shrieked. He was so overcome by both confusion and anger that he almost missed Éponine’s stern look and extended finger signalling him to shut the fuck up. Almost. He fell silent as soon as he got the message; one does not disobey Éponine’s glares.

“What’s going on, R. Why is this different from the other times?” Grantaire opened his mouth to speak, but Éponine cut him off almost immediately. “Yes, it is different. It obviously is, so spill.”

Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s hand shaking in his own.

His hand was shaking. Like, actually shaking. God, he had never felt so pathetic. It wasn’t as if his father had actually hit him, not this time. But there is, somewhere in his mind, a part of him that would have preferred to be punched and kicked and thrown about, maybe it would have hurt less.

 “I told him,” Grantaire said in a small voice. Éponine’s interrogative façade fell completely and she scrambled over to Grantaire quickly and pulled him into a tight hug. Barely a second went by before Bahorel came bounding over an joined in the embrace. As he watched the scene before him, Enjolras almost missed Grantaire whimper out, “I don’t think he’s going to let me back in this time.”

Suddenly, Enjolras understood.

Grantaire’s father’s words came flooding back to him from a memory that he’d tried to repress for nearly five years. “I will not have a queer for a son!” At the time, Enjolras had thought that was the night that Grantaire’s father had found out, but perhaps not. For about two years after That Incident, Grantaire had only gone out with girls, something that Courfeyrac had pointed out at the time before promptly being subjected to a lecture by Enjolras about how Grantaire is allowed to date whomever he wants and, being that he is bisexual, it shouldn’t be particularly notable if Grantaire is dating a girl or a boy. Though he still stands by that lecture, Enjolras did wonder whether Courf had indeed been correct in suggesting something was amiss.

It made sense when he thought about it.

It made sense that, after going through what Enjolras suspects he went through, that he would try to suppress his sexuality, even in front of his friends.

Clearly, Grantaire had been struggling silently with it for years.

Well, not silently.

Obviously, at least Éponine and Bahorel knew and Enjolras tried not to be offended that he hadn’t been deemed trustworthy with this.

Now, Grantaire had come out to his father.

Coming out is hard and Enjolras knows it. It was hard enough for him to come out to his rather indifferent mother (who in turn, with his permission, told his father), but, for Grantaire to come out to his homophobic father? Enjolras can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like.

Enjolras couldn’t remember a single time that he had wanted to punch a person in the face more than he wanted to punch Grantaire’s father right at that moment.  

“You know you can stay with either of us as long as you need, right?” Éponine said into Grantaire’s shoulder, still clinging to him, “'Chetta and Jehan too.”

“Me too,” Enjolras added suddenly, seemingly breaking the hug-pile out of their comforting trance.

“What?” Grantaire asked, looking equal parts surprised and sceptical of the offer. Éponine and Bahorel backed away to their patch on the floor to watch the scene unfold in front of them.

“If you need to, you can crash at mine,” he said. He almost added an ‘even if you don’t need to, you can still crash at mine’, but even Enjolras has enough sense to keep his trap shut instead.

“What’s in it for you? Why would you let stay at your house? You barely know me!” Grantaire’s tone was accusing and almost made Enjolras flinch.

“Because…” _Because I love you_ , he thought, “Because you’re my friend.” It may have just been Enjolras’s imagination or something along the lines of wishful thinking, but Grantaire looked almost… disappointed? No, that couldn’t be right, he must’ve been mistaken.

“Because you’re my friend.”

Grantaire was at a loss for what to say. Immediately, a huge wave of disappointment crashed over him. Disappointment because, just for a second, Grantaire had been able to kid himself enough that Enjolras could have said something else. _Maybe in another life_ , he thought bitterly. After he could stand the feeling no longer, Grantaire settled back into his snarky, sceptical and cynical safety blanket.

“Sorry, Apollo, but _no one_ cares that much about someone they barely know.”

“Don’t they?”

“No. They don’t. So why do you?” Grantaire’s tone was challenging and he was facing Enjolras fearlessly, as though he had nothing else to lose, their faces mere inches from one another.

Something that must be understood about Enjolras before we move any further forward with our story, is that he never _ever_ acts impulsively. Sure, he has impulses, everyone does, but he never acts on them without thinking every possible outcome through first. The beginning of the long summer at the end of year eleven saw almost every year eleven out getting smashed in a field on that first night.

They weren’t all together in the same field, but collectively 99% of St Michel lower school students were in an assortment of fields getting pissed.

Even Enjolras had a celebratory drink.

That night, Les Amis had been down at the natural pool by the river down the valley from the school scarcely an hour after the final bell had gone. It had all been pretty tame so far, Marius had brought enough champagne for everyone (and that means enough for Courfeyrac, Éponine and Grantaire to co-opt their own bottles) and Jehan had somehow, don’t ask anyone how, bought a bottle of absinthe and was insistent on getting everything to see if they saw a green fairy when they drank it. However, when Musichetta arrived with tray upon tray of jello shots in her van, chaos had risen quickly².

By a generous estimate, it had taken five minutes for Courfeyrac to suggest skinny dipping and then under half an hour after that for everyone to be drunk enough to agree with him. Well, almost everyone. Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and Enjolras had remained on the side of the pool, fully clothed.

Joly had decided that there could very well be Brain-Eating Amoeba in the water and begged Musichetta and Bossuet to reconsider their watery plans. Being as inebriated as they were, the two were easily persuaded and the three of them formed a sort of nap pile several feet away from the water’s edge (far enough away to avoid the Amoeba).

Enjolras, on the other hand, even as drunk as he had become over the course of the couple of hours they had been by the pool (it didn’t take much, he’s rather a lightweight when it comes to drinking), he had not lost his inhibitions enough to literally jump into a situation without considering the consequences or whether he actually wanted to in the first place. Naked. The conclusion he drew from his more-than-slightly-tipsy brain fumblings was that he didn’t want to skinny dip, no matter how much his friends tried to cajole him into it. There were simply too many variables to consider for him to properly make a decision. He figured that he'd better not.

So, no, Enjolras didn’t do things impulsively.

And yet, looking into Grantaire’s sad, angry and mistrusting eyes as he was challenged, his impulses gave sense and reason the middle finger and took control of his body.

He kissed him.

Suddenly, without warning, Enjolras was pressing his lips to Grantaire’s and Grantaire was too stunned in the moment to do anything about it.

For Grantaire, it was like the world had stopped spinning and reality stilled around them. He had always thought that the universe in which Enjolras actually likes him is the same universe in which pigs can fly and, now that this was happening, Grantaire half expected to be able to gaze out of the window at a flock of pigs hovering in the breeze. Frankly, the pig thing still seemed a tad more likely.

The kiss was over in a matter of seconds, little more than a brush of the lips. And, yet, the two boys remained in a state of hypnosis, staring at each other, each at a loss for what to say or do in this situation. This trance was not a kind of revery. This is particularly surprising in the case of Grantaire who spent most of his time interacting with Enjolras staring at him reverently. No, this trance was more based on shock. Enjolras shocked at what he just did and Grantaire more shocked that Enjolras had done what he had, even if it was the result of a brief moment of madness as Grantaire expected.

Éponine may have gasped as Enjolras leant in and someone may have said something somewhere behind them as their lips touched, but they were both a tad too preoccupied to notice. It wasn’t until Valjean clasped a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder that either of them broke out of their trance.

“Well, gentlemen. When I said that I hoped that you work out your animosity, well… I have to say this is better than I could have hoped for!” Valjean may have been smiling, _beaming_ may have been a more apt description, but Enjolras and Grantaire were both too mortified to tell or care.  “I think they’ve served their punishment, don’t you Éponine? Bahorel?” Their friends must have nodded, though neither of them saw it. Even the ever-headstrong Enjolras’s eyes were glued to the lino flooring through sheer embarrassment. “Gentlemen, you’re free to go.”

The moment Valjean spoke those final words, Grantaire had dropped Enjolras’s hand and was sprinting out of the school as though someone had set his arse on fire. In a second impulsive act in as many minutes, Enjolras ran after him as fast as he could and tried not to think about how cold his hand suddenly was.

Left in the corridor, Bahorel gave Éponine a helpless look meaning “How are we going to explain this to the others?” and she responded by simply taking out her phone and presenting a picture of the soon-to-be-legendary kiss. Just because Éponine was concerned for her friend, doesn’t mean that she can’t collect blackmail material regarding said friend for future reference.

The teachers watched curiously as two of the teenagers made a run for it and the other two, somehow, had a silent conversation using only facial expressions and a mobile phone. Between their confusion, Javert discreetly slipped Valjean two £10 notes and an IOU for one week’s bus duty. Valjean struggled to contain the smug look that tried to creep onto his face.

 

¹It should be noted that Grantaire does not like tequila. In fact, he would go so far as to say that he hates the drink. The fact of the matter is, though, that Grantaire’s father hates tequila even more than he does and so Grantaire has made it his mission to drink only tequila when he wants to give a huge, telepathic middle finger to his father. Over time, tequila has become Grantaire’s SadDrink™, despite it making him want to vomit before it even makes its way into his system.

²Luckily, none of the jelly shots that Musichetta had brought were made with tequila. Enjolras can't stand the stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I know. I'm an asshole for creating more conflict, but trust me, it'll all be okay... probably...
> 
> As always comments and kudos are my life blood!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are able to work a few things out, but a bigger conversation is brought into play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I haven't checked, but this chapter might be the longest one yet. 
> 
> Also, y'all said you liked the footnotes, so it's your fault that they happened again. Really, you should think before you encourage me like that. It truly is a hazard. 
> 
> For a multitude of reasons, this chapter hasn't been proofread to the extent that I usually do, but I've had a quick check for grammar and spelling and word choice and it seems to be okay, so apologies if it's not the quality that it usually is!
> 
> Enjoy!

 The moment he was allowed, Grantaire was out of there in a flash.

To be honest, he wasn’t exactly sure where he was running to.

He just wanted to be… _away_.

It was a fruitless exercise, really. He would only end up skulking about Éponine’s house until she got there ave a go at him for running away from something he’d wanted for over ten years.

When he looked at it from that perspective, Grantaire also became unsure of exactly _why_ he was running.

I mean, how is running away from Enjolras going to help anything? They had just become friends for god's sake! Grantaire had really thought that he would be able to do it without making it weird without springing his awkward feelings on the guy and then The Almighty Apollo shows up and flips the entire situation on its head! The very tired voice of reason in his head tried to tell him that the only way the situation would improve would be if he actually had a proper, grown-up conversation with Enjolras.

So that’s why he’s running, then.

He never listens to that voice. Not since it told him that doing a play with Jehan and Courfeyrac in year eight wouldn’t do him any harm.

For a relatively short guy, Grantaire was pretty fast. This was Enjolras’s thought as he chased him through the teachers' carpark. Grantaire was fast enough to evade Enjolras, but Enjolras knew the school like the back of his hand, possibly even better; there was no way that he would let Grantaire get away without apologising for what he did. He obviously didn’t like him (why else would he be running away?) and for Enjolras to throw himself at him, especially considering what he's going through? That was, in Gavroche’s immortal words, ‘Not cool, dude.’ He simply _had_ to apologise.

Enjolras cut through empty classrooms, the dining hall, the backroom that the caretakers smoke in, and the store cupboard they keep the rounders equipment in and luckily found himself a mere five metres away from Grantaire. Not-so-luckily, his lungs were beginning to burn and breathing was becoming little more than a laborious chore.

There was a reason that Grantaire had always bunked-off cross country lessons.

He fucking _hates_ running.

Now, Grantaire is an athletic guy, but his things are dancing and boxing and, if you catch him in the right mood, swimming.

Not.

Fucking.

Running.

So, by the time he got to the front gate of the school, his legs were aching and his head was pounding and his hangover had barely gone away and, to be honest, he just wanted to go home and punch a wall. It seemed like the universe disagreed and so a strategically placed rock from the universe on the pavement in front of him saw to that.

Jesus Christ, Enjolras thought, I might actually pass out. His windpipe was struggling and he could see spots in his vision, but he carried on ambling forward until he saw Grantaire crumple to the floor in front of him. Then, and only then, did he begin to sprint once again, a burst of adrenaline sending him flying towards Grantaire like a slingshot.

The tarmac of the ground was hard and cold. Well, it's tarmac, there is very little else expected of it. Grantaire was pretty sure he'd grazed his knees through his jeans on the way down which sucked considering he didn't know when he would be able to sneak into his house to get a fresh pair. That train of thought alarmed Grantaire suddenly. Since when was getting kicked out of your house - maybe permanently! - such a casual thing to him? To anyone? Seeing as he couldn't find the motivation in him to force himself up and off the floor Grantaire stayed there, crumpled up in a heap, contemplating how desensitised he had become to his trainwreck of a life.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras called worriedly, "Please tell me you're okay."

"I'm okay," he lied. Enjolras crouched down in front of him. He looked as though he wanted to do a thorough medical check á la Joly, but held himself back, like he was afraid to touch the other boy.

Meanwhile, Grantaire was beginning to realise just how not-okay he was. His father had kicked him out, he was never going to be able to escape to university with his friends, he would be stuck in St Michel until the day he died and was found in a ditch. These apparent truths came at him so quickly and with so much force that the wind was knocked out of his lungs, not dissimilarly to how a good punch to the gut would knock you to the floor in spluttering and coughing pile.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras asked cautiously, seeing how Grantaire had suddenly become incapable of breathing, "Are you okay?"

"No! Of course, I'm not okay!" he managed to gasp out as tears began to unabashedly stream down his face. Then, Grantaire did the one thing that he had been trying not to do for years. He leapt into Enjolras’s arms because, and though he would hate to admit it, right at that moment he genuinely needed Enjolras. He needed something to ground him.

Suddenly, Enjolras had an armful of Grantaire. He could feel the rapid, stuttering breaths against his chest, he could hear the choked whimpering of the other teen falling apart, and, already, his shirt was becoming uncomfortably damp. Unsure of what to do to help, Enjolras did what he had always been good at. He talked.

"No, I suppose you're not. That was a silly question, wasn't it?" He received no verbal reply, but he could already feel Grantaire's breathing begin to even out, and so he carried on. "Your life is shit at the moment and, if I'm correct, it's been shit for a very long time. But, you have survived for so long in that situation and have come out smiling and making jokes and painting the most beautiful things despite the ugliness of your situation and, d'you know what? I think that makes you the strongest person I know." By the time he had finished talking, Grantaire's breathing was almost back to normal and the spluttering and whimpering had stopped altogether. Pausing his eloquent ramble of adoration, Enjolras took in Grantaire's dishevelled appearance. His under-eyes were puffy and red, the knees of his jeans were dotted with blood from his fall, his bottom lip was swollen from where he'd been compulsively biting it, and Enjolras suddenly noticed that his eyes which were usually such a clear, crystal blue now juxtaposed by the bloodshot looked as green as the jacket he seemed to perpetually wear, like a stagnant pool. If Enjolras hadn't sprung a kiss on him only ten minutes before, he definitely would have then.

As his breathing evened out, the worst seemed to be over for Grantaire. Then, as he looked up into Enjolras's concerned eyes, he realised how stupid he was for trying to run away. What was he running from? This? Being cradled on the rough tarmac by the man that he had loved since before he could properly understand what he was feeling? And, why? Why would he _possibly_ try to deny himself this? Well, in a moment of sudden courage, he decided not to deny himself any longer.

He kissed him.

This kiss was very much like the first one: began quickly and ended even faster.

Though it was the same in many ways, it was also the reverse.

Now, Enjolras was the one too stunned to do anything. Though, perhaps not so stunned as he was confused. A thousand questions would flow into his brain the moment they parted, but, just for the split second they were kissing, Enjolras's mind was blissfully clear. Despite everything going on, he was briefly content.

Then they parted.

Excuses began to fly out of Grantaires mouth the moment he was able to form sentences. Nope, Enjolras thought, I'm not having that, and he lunged forward once again.

This kiss was better.

There is no disputing it.

Despite the initial shock, Grantaire seemed to settle quickly and soon a rhythm of sorts was established. More aptly, a waltz was established; Enjolras would move and Grantaire would mirror him and vice versa. As first _real_ kisses go, it wasn't so bad.

Sure, they were on the pavement in the gateway of their school and they had around five minutes until the bell goes and the stampede to the buses begins, but _where_ they are isn't important. No, just the fact that they _are_ is what matters, really. That's how Enjolras felt as he let himself fall into the kiss.

That's truly a lovely sentiment, but soon, reality came to call.

"Apollo?" Grantaire asked, pulling away abruptly, "Can we move? It's just, my leg has fallen asleep." It took him a moment to process what Grantaire had said as he was still in a stunned state of euphoria coupled with a delighted air of disbelief. When the words finally got through his bubble of contentment, the absurdity of the situation kicked in and the laughter that came bubbling up Enjolras's throat made his shoulders shake in the most wonderful way. However, again, reality decided to ruin the fun.

Enjolras laughing is a sight that Grantaire has always loved, but the shaking didn't exactly help maintain the joyful atmosphere.

Grantaire fell off.

One moment he was still where he had sprawled himself on Enjolras in a state of depressive and distraught desperation, and then he was on the floor. The cold, rough, tarmac floor.

"I fucking fell off," as he would later rant to Éponine whilst staring at her bedroom ceiling, despairing over his own abysmal social skills.

So, to recap, Grantaire had been kicked out of his house, was failing maths, had a slightly split swollen lip, bruised knuckles, grazed knees, and he wasn't certain the last time he had been as happy as he was just then. Nothing was perfect, not really, but, right at that moment, Grantaire felt that he was the closest to being truly happy he had ever been.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras apologised, wheezing a tad from laughing so hard, “Are you okay, Grantaire?” Grantaire nodded in response and dusted himself off somewhat, he was likely never going to get all of the dust off his jeans. A small chuckle escaped his lips and Enjolras wasn’t exactly sure how to react. “What’s funny?” he asked, taking in the almost barmy smile on Grantaire face. It seemed that he had, too, realised the absurdity of their situation, or perhaps not.

“You know you’re the only one that calls me that.”

“What… Grantaire? But, that’s your name!” Enjolras’s expression wasn’t dissimilar to that of a child’s when they are first told what a palindrome is and that ‘racecar’ is, in fact, one of them.

“Yes, and it’s awful! No one uses it!” Grantaire patted his shoulder comfortingly as seemed to Enjolras contemplate life. “You must have noticed everyone calling me ‘R’? Even teachers do!” Enjolras sent him a childish glare, suddenly feeling rather stupid for noticing the way that Grantaire’s eyes look when he has been crying, but not that he has been using the entirely wrong name.

“Well, you’re one to talk,” he said defensively as he regained his composure and, with it, his debating skills, “You are the only person on the face of the earth to ever call me ‘Apollo’! I don’t even know where that came from! At least ‘Grantaire’ is technically your name!”

A blush began to spread across his cheeks at the mention of the nickname. How was Grantaire supposed to explain that without embarrassing himself?

“Okay, uh… You know when we went to the Louvre in year six?” Enjolras nodded, despite still having no idea where the explanation was going. “Well, I was looking at the ‘Apollo chasing Daphne’ statue. I didn’t like it, it didn’t look like how I imagined Apollo to be, his face wasn’t right. Too soft, no passion in his face. Anyway, and then Courf’ and ‘Ferre suddenly ran past – I think they’d stolen your book or something, I don’t know – and you were chasing them. I didn’t see you at first because, and don’t take this the wrong way, you are not very good at running. But, when you finally caught up, I saw Apollo. All grace and elegance and firey power and passion… then you fell on your face,” Grantaire paused to laugh at the memory and, to his surprise, Enjolras chuckled too. “I thought if I’d be able to play it off as making fun of you if you ever asked and, so, I started calling you Apollo,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully, “And I guess it just kind of stuck.”

“Huh,” Enjolras said, well, as far as a single meaningless syllable can be said. “I’d always assumed that you were making fun of me in some way. I was never sure how, but I was sure it was a strange insult of some kind.” Grantaire scoffed at the accusation.

“Me? Insult you? Never!” The sarcasm in his voice was palpable. Now that he was sitting on the pavement beside Enjolras instead of in his lap, his leg had started to wake up.

Cue the pins and needles.

“AH!” he cried out suddenly.

“What is it?!” Enjolras asked, immediately jumping into action.

“I have fucking pins and needles in my foot!” 

If it hadn’t been for the distant sound of the school bell signalling the end of the school day in the distance, Enjolras would have probably coughed up a lung with how hard he laughed at Grantaire’s pouting face.

When people said that bus time at St Michel was crazy, they weren’t lying. Seriously, Grantaire could have sworn that the ground began to shake mere seconds after the bell went as the hoard began to descend.

“Come on, R, we have to go.” Enjolras stood up and held his hand out to Grantaire who, grumbling, received his help and tried to get up onto his uncomfortably tingling leg.

In the distance, they could hear the chattering conglomerate that was the student body of St Michel lower school coming from down the road. “We really do have to go,” Enjolras prompted Grantaire, who was moving at the pace of a reluctant snail, with a slight tone of urgency in his voice. It’s safe to say that Enjolras really didn’t want to get caught up in the swathes of people that were about to flood into the bus area, where they were sitting, from every angle. He hadn’t had to get the bus for four years since his family had moved just down the road from the school in the middle of year eight. Before then, though, he had been forced to get the bus to and from school every day and, let’s just say, it was not an experience he enjoyed. For all that Enjolras liked to believe that people were good and their generation is the most accepting and liberal one ever, he would probably be among the first to concede that some of the people on those buses are just straight up assholes. Just not good people. Suffice to say, he was not looking forward to the possibility of having to push through the crowds of those same assholes once again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. Don't get your knickers in a twist, Apollo," Grantaire said, over-dramatically limping towards the gate, "Where are we actually going, though?"

"I figured my house. My mum's out at work and won't be back until six-ish and my dad is away on business in Calais, so they wouldn't bother us or ask any uncomfortable questions about why we look the way we do."

When Grantaire thought about it, they must've looked a real state. The beautiful Enjolras, who usually looked so put together and smart, had a monster bruise on his cheekbone that had firmly landed itself in the category of black-eye-to-be, his lips were swollen (not that Grantaire wasn't proud of making them look like that, he most definitely was), his knuckles had dried blood on them, and his clothes were dishevelled in a way that was less fantasy-roguish and more I-just-got-pulled-through-a-hedge-backwards-and-then-had-a-depressed-person-cry-into-my-chest-for-ten-minutes. If Enjolras was bad, Grantaire could only imagine what he looked like with his split, swollen lips, messed hair, bloody jeans, bruised knuckles, and undeniably tear-stained cheeks.

A mess.

He looked a mess.

To his surprise though, Enjolras didn’t really seem to care about his untidy appearance. He merely grabbed the artist’s perpetually paint-dappled hand and lead him slowly down the road, dodging a few year sevens who had eagerly sprinted away from the heard towards the buses.

“The only way the pins and needles are going to go away is if you use your leg properly. Come on,” he said, gently easing Grantaire’s full weight onto the leg in question, “There you go. Now walk.” Grantaire grumbled¹ something under his breath along the lines of “Bossy, bossy, Apollo,” but began to walk tentatively nonetheless.

Grantaire realised that he was probably being overdramatic about the whole pins and needles thing, but, dammit, he was emotionally sensitive and overall a dramatic bitch, how was he supposed to act?

Suddenly, Grantaire realised where they were and pulled the both of them aside, into a patch of land at the back of the park.

“What the hell, R?” Enjolras asked, trying to pry a twig out of his hair.

“Sorry, but I wanted to show you this place. This is my sanctuary.” He gestured grandly with his arms at the cove of trees they were in.

The Sanctuary was undeniably beautiful.

Enjolras wasn’t a particularly artistic man in any sort of respect, but even he had to concede that this place was just meant to be painted. The way the light filtered through the canopy of the trees cast the entire area in golden-green light and the moss underfoot was soft in a way that made it feel like a brand new carpet. It was gorgeous.

And… familiar…

“You’ve painted this before,” he said, the realisation striking him abruptly, “It’s the one with Jehan in it,” he continued, “With them smoking and with the smoke from the cigarette going up into the trees…” Enjolras paused almost wistfully, “That’s my favourite painting.”

“I know,” Grantaire admitted slightly sheepishly, “Courf told me you liked it when you saw it at the exhibition²…” he trailed off, not quite knowing how to finish what he was saying. For the first time since their third kiss, Grantaire felt awkward. This was his Sanctuary. Probably the closest thing he would consider to be a safe space. He was baring his soul to Enjolras in the only way he knew how. Action.

“R, can we have a conversation about what happened today? I mean, a real conversation about, you know, emotions and stuff?” Clearly, Enjolras was feeling the awkwardness too. At least that made Grantaire feel a little bit better, even if the actual content of the other’s words were frightening in the extreme.

“Uh…” he began eloquently, “Sure, I guess we should. Just so we’re on the same page.”

“Exactly,” Enjolras agreed.

Here we go.

 

 

 

 

¹ Grantaire has always been the most miserable person when it came to any kind of injury or illness. Seriously, once he had little more than a bad cold but refused to stop complaining about it until Éponine went, during a double free period, to the Polish deli on the other side of town and bought him matzo ball soup. It should also be mentioned that she also bought some cold remedy and forced it down his throat with the aid of both Joly and Combeferre. Despite this, Grantaire is still adamant to this day that the soup helped more than the medicine. Joly is furious at this sentiment, while Éponine is secretly pleased.

²Grantaire’s art teacher had entered some of his painting into a competition for having them be displayed at the fairly large art gallery in town. He had begged her not to, but Madame Magloire had insisted. To the surprise of no one but Grantaire, they won. Five of his paintings were exhibited. One was a painting of Éponine and Gavroche asleep on a ratty sofa, both looking so peaceful that Grantaire couldn’t help but paint them, called ‘Warrior at Rest’. Another was a painting of Bahorel and Feuilly sparring in the boxing ring, perfectly capturing the speed at which the two skilled fighters worked, called ‘A Quick and Violent Dance’. Another was the painting of Jehan simply entitled ‘Nature’. Another was a stunning portrait of Cosette, naked from the shoulders up, covering her neck and the bottom of her face with her arms crossed elegantly over her shoulders while she fiercely looks off into the middle distance, called ‘Artemis’. And the final one, an impressionist piece of a blonde-haired, red-jacketed man rallying up a crowd of people with his friends at his side. This one he had left untitled, or rather he had been forced to because he was told he couldn’t name it ‘Enjolras’ and he couldn’t bear to see it with another name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm contemplating doing a chapter after the final real chapter just sort of detailing my various headcannons for this universe and maybe even giving a small teaser for volume two of this fic, just to give you an idea of what it's likely to be like. Tell me if you would be interested in seeing a chapter like that, because I have so many thoughts on this universe that aren't immediately relevant to the story, but that I still want to share anyway.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are my lifeblood and are greatly appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication. Can they get better at it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is even less proofread than the last one. For that, I can only apologise, but if I proofread any more I feel like I'd probably just delete all of it and start it again and that would not be good, so... you get what you get. And what you get is mostly dialogue, so... eh. Do with that what you will. I personally really like dialogue, but I know that some people don't like it that much so, again, apologies. Anyway!
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m sure this is pretty obvious by now, but I feel like I should, you know, make it explicit… I really like you…” Enjolras paused as though he was battling with something inside of himself.

Words had always been Enjolras’s strong point, but emotions? He was a little shakier there. He was so bad at expressing that side of him that the nervousness that was coursing through him seemed to exhibit physical symptoms, symptoms that would send Joly flying into a frenzy. His mouth was dry, his hands were sweaty, his head was pounding, and he could have sworn that he had a fever. His next words felt heavy in his throat, meaningful and real. It was silly, really. He knows that the value that is put on them is entirely arbitrary and the culture surrounding them is exacerbated by holidays and traditions and movies, but all the same… Enjolras still wanted to get it right.

He cleared his throat; it had gone dry from nervousness.

“Grantaire… R, sorry. I think… I mean, I’m almost certain… I me—” he looked down at his hands and tried to collect his thoughts as best he could, “No,” he said suddenly resolute, “I’m sure.”

It was strange. Grantaire had never seen Enjolras babble before. Sure, he’d seen him get embarrassed about fucking up a Starbucks order and he’d seen him lose the ability to speak from pure, unadulterated fury, but he’d never seen him babble. To be honest, it was kind of frightening. What could he possibly want to say that would be so scary that it would make him, the almighty Apollo, babble like an embarrassed tween?

“I love you.”

Oh.

That.

As soon as he got the words out, Enjolras saw Grantaire’s jaw drop in a comical fashion. He didn’t look unlike the mildly shocked emoji. If Enjolras hadn’t been quite so absolutely terrified of rejection at that moment, he might have laughed at the sight.

It took a few moments for Grantaire to recover to the point at which he could speak once again, but, when he did, the response was natural.

“I love you too,” the response slipped out of Grantaire’s mouth without a thought. He had been waiting to be able to say that for years.

Six years to be exact.

They were in Paris on a school trip to celebrate the end of their primary school education, one day after the Apollo incident, and they were out for an evening meal on a riverboat on The Seine.

Even at the age of eleven, Grantaire had an artistic mind. His eyes saw the darkness and the light as different tones and depth which could, in turn, inspire emotions and feelings and all manner of reactions.

While they were eating, the sun began to set. Tendrils of fire rose up in the reflections in the water, casting everything in its path in golden, godly light. Suddenly, as he cast his gaze around the other occupants of the table, Grantaire saw Enjolras in a way he would never forget for as long as he may live. As much as he would tell Enjolras that it was the day at the museum that inspired the loving nickname, it wouldn’t be until much later that he would admit that the first time he saw Enjolras as Apollo was the same moment he fell in love with him. As the light fell on his Apollo’s regal features, Enjolras became a golden god and Grantaire realised that what he was feeling, had been feeling, wasn’t just admiration or, hell, even veneration.

It was love.

This love had been something he had been feeling and grappling with for six years. That is why, when he heard those words, those words that he had been sure he could sell his soul to be able to hear and still never come close to hearing, the response had been something reflexive.

Enjolras didn’t know any of this, especially considering that he had been so wrapped up in trying to compose the next section of his speech that he had missed Grantaire’s easy words.

“If you don’t feel the same,” he went on obliviously, “I understand. I know it’s a lot. Hell, I only realised half an hour ago¹! I just feel like you have to know, even if it’s just for the sake of transparency going forward with this relationship or friendship or whatever we decide to do.” He looked at Grantaire earnestly. The more time he spent with the other boy he realised that he wasn’t concerned with hiding anything from him. Quite the contrary, actually, he found himself wanting to spill every secret he had ever been trusted with.

He just wanted Grantaire to be able to trust him as much as Enjolras trusted him.

He desperately wanted him to feel the same way.

“That being said,” he continued, not noticing the adoring, if slightly amused, smile creeping its way onto Grantaire’s face, “I really would like to pursue this relationship. Romantically spea— Why are you smiling?”

“You know, for such a smart guy, you can be a real dumbass sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I love you too.”

“Really? You mean it?” Enjolras looked as though he was a child that had just been given the exact toy he wanted for Christmas.

“Yes, Apollo. I mean it. I also meant it five minutes ago when I said it before and you ignored me,” Grantaire’s tone was playful and harmless, but Enjolras blushed nevertheless. Grantaire sat down on one of the logs on the ground and patted the space next to him. Enjolras gratefully took the place as he realised how much his bones were beginning to ache; it had been a trying day.

“I’m sorry. I was just so nervous. This is all very new to me,” he tried to explain, but Grantaire was still smirking at him and the blush worsened, much to his chagrin.

Suddenly, Grantaire’s face fell as something seemed to occur to him.

It was all going so well and then his brain decided to punch him in the face with several unpleasant thoughts. A particularly difficult task, mind you, not just because Grantaire had been so, unbelievably happy, but because brains don’t have hands.

“Enjolras?” He sounded so timid all of a sudden, not to mention that he wasn’t calling the other boy by his nickname. It must be serious. “You said you only realised half an hour ago.”

“Um… Yes?” he half-asked confused by the sudden change in tone.

“Right about when you found out how fucked up I am?” Enjolras didn’t say anything in return, struggling to understand where Grantaire was going with his line of questioning.

Grantaire himself was unable to meet Enjolras’s eyes and so kept his gaze on the leaf-covered ground. He knew that he was being ridiculous. It was just this growing sense of paranoia in the back of his mind that, if he didn’t get rid of it right at that moment, would grow and grow and grow until it exploded in a breakdown the size of St Michel destroying his relationship with Enjolras in its wake.

“Enjolras,” he began, pausing to steel himself for an unpleasant answer, “Do you just like me because I’m broken? Because you think you can fix me? Because you can’t.” Right then, Grantaire sounded so small that Enjolras almost struggled to believe that it was the same person who regularly jokes around with Bahorel and Courfeyrac and makes dick jokes at the lunch table. Grantaire’s voice got even smaller when he spoke again, while also gaining a harsh, bitter edge to it. “You can’t fix me, Apollo. I’m too fucked up. I’m irredeemable.”

Suddenly, in a reversed move from earlier that day, Enjolras pounced on Grantaire, wrapping in his arms tightly.

“I am so sorry that that is what you think of yourself,” he said into Grantaire’s shoulder fiercely, leaving no room for argument, “But, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you are. I think you are so strong in spite of a shitty situation.” Enjolras pulled away from the ferocious hug and looked at Grantaire with fire in his eyes. “I think the only fucked up thing about this is that you’ve had to deal with this for so long. You don’t need redemption, Grantaire, you deserve compensation.”

There were a few beats of silence before either of them spoke again. Enjolras was fully prepared to launch into another speech about how Grantaire is wonderful and how he’s been in love with him for years, he just hadn’t realised until half an hour before, but, to his surprise, Grantaire was the one who spoke first.

“You called me Grantaire again,” he pointed out, his voice slightly hoarse from emotion.

“I’m sorry, it was a spur of the moment thing. I’ll try to remember in the future.”

“No. I don’t mind actually.” Enjolras furrowed his brows, baffled. Hadn’t Grantaire said only fifteen minutes before that he hated his name? “I think…” he began slowly, “That if you were to continue calling me Grantaire, I might hate my name a little less. " Enjolras could only nod eagerly, happy that he could help make Grantaire's life a little better, even if it is in a small way like that.

"Come with me," he said suddenly, after a minute or two of happy silence. Enjolras complied easily. Grantaire led them to a bed of leaves at the edge of The Sanctuary, shaped in a sort of egg shape. Enjolras must have frowned slightly at it because, without any verbal prompt, Grantaire launched into an explanation. "Jehan said that the bed couldn't be in a perfect circle otherwise it would encourage the fae to manifest in here and apparently that's a bad thing so... egg." He gestured at the egg-shaped bed of leaves and moss and, what looked like, an old, mouldy mattress underneath it all. To be perfectly honest, Enjolras didn't really want to know.

They remained, laying on the bed, in comfortable silence for an uncertain amount of time. By the time either one of them spoke, the sounds of hustle and bustle coming from the bus-stampede had died down and they had heard two of the buses going the other way down the road. "So," Enjolras began, slightly uncertain, "What do you think our friends are going to think of this? Well, whatever this is exactly, we didn’t really decide on that."

"I would like us to date if you don't mind, Apollo," Grantaire said, seemingly confident but with an undertone of humour - just in case he had to joke himself out of a situation he had vastly misread².

“I don’t mind. I _really_ , _really_ don’t. I would love for us to date, Grantaire.” Enjolras is known throughout St Michel for being fearsome and passionate and almost robotic in his sensibilities. Though, when he smiled warmly at Grantaire, in that moment there was no trace of that cold-hearted persona that he seemed to have cultivated throughout the majority of his teen years. Every single fathom of love that he felt for the other boy was shown in his face just then.

If Éponine had been there, she would have called it sickening, but she would have also been pleased that someone could love her best friend that much. Not that she would ever admit it.

“I think, going back to your original question,” Grantaire continued, not taking his eyes off Enjolras’s for even a moment, “That some of our friends will be happier than others.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it depends on who won the bet.”

“The _bet_?! What bet?!”

“I don’t know for certain that they have been betting on us getting together, but if I know what Rel, Courf, and Gav are like when they’re all together, and I do, they’ll definitely have a bet going.” Enjolras hummed, thinking for a moment.

“They do seem to share one brain cell between them.”

“I disagree. I think that, as a group, they have three brain cells. It’s just that Gav has all of them.” Enjolras smiled and nodded, his eyes full of adoration for the cynic before them.

Suddenly, though, Enjolras’s face turned pensive and his brow furrowed in the way that it always did when he was thinking hard about something.

“What is it?” Grantaire asked, immediately growing concerned.

“There’s something else we have to talk about. We argue all the time. I know most of it is just petty squabbling, but sometimes it gets bad. And, Grantaire, going forward with this we _can’t_ have a repeat of today.” As he spoke, Enjolras sounded like he was begging with Grantaire and, to be honest, it broke his heart that he thought that could ever happen again. When Enjolras finished, Grantaire’s mind stalled completely and he had to pause to let it catch up, he even sat up to let the blood flow get to his crapped-out brain. When it had finally caught up, he immediately tripped over his words in a humungous frenzy of promises and swears and declarations. He let the words tumble out of his mouth in such and mess that Enjolras didn’t catch half of what he was saying, but he got the general tone.

Neither of them would ever let their arguments get that bad again.

Ever.

Whilst Enjolras might not have caught the majority of his words, Grantaire was determined with every fibre of his being to keep to each and every solemn promise that he hurled at his Apollo.

Enjolras sat up and placed a comforting hand on the still-babbling Grantaire’s shoulder, effectively shutting him up. “Grantaire,” he said, his voice steady, “It’s okay. It’s not just on you, I still think today was my fault. Plus, arguing is a habit that we’ve had for, god, how long have we known each other? Thirteen, fourteen years? We’ll work at it. It’s not going to come naturally. Anyway, if we stopped arguing completely, I think I’d miss it. No one in the ABC really questions my insane ideas and it’s good to have someone who can kind of bring me back down to reality, so I don’t go running into a situation with a half-baked idea and get myself killed,” he joked as he smiled brightly and squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder once again.

Grantaire was glad for the grounding force that the hand on his shoulder provided. It had truly been a trying day and, every time something threatened the newfound shred of happiness that Grantaire was fiercely clutching onto with both hands, he would feel himself getting closer and closer to another downward spiral.

Enjolras was his anchor, the only thing keeping him sane at that moment. And for that, he was eternally grateful.

Seeing how Grantaire was struggling a bit, Enjolras came up with an idea that he thought may help.

“How about,” he began, squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder reassuringly once again, “We don’t tell anyone about this yet. Not that I don’t want to, because I do, but I just think it’ll be easier for the both of us to get used to this new dynamic without our friends asking us questions about it every two seconds. And, yes, Éponine and Bahorel already know, but I don’t think they’d tell anyone if we asked them not to³.”

Grantaire was so grateful that he didn’t even hesitate in letting the other teen know by pulling him into a tight embrace and murmuring lovingly in his ear. Enjolras, if it was possible, hesitated even less in returning the sentiment.

“I love you, Apollo.”

“I love you too, Grantaire.”

 

 

¹It was, in fact, thirty-eight minutes since Enjolras realised that he truly loved Grantaire. There is some discrepancy here that must be clarified. It had not been thirty-eight minutes since Enjolras fell in love with Grantaire, it had merely been that long since he realised that was what he was feeling. It will surprise no one to find out that Enjolras is, and has _always_ been, rather shit at feelings. They just don’t make sense the way that seemingly everything else does. That is why, just over three years after falling in love with Grantaire, he realised the true gravitas of what he was feeling. Love. Isn’t it a bitch sometimes?

²This was a coping mechanism that Jehan had pointed out he had a meagre two months into their psychology class. Their exact words were “A coping mechanism to deal with your crippling fear of rejection.” Grantaire had then made a joke about it and everyone else there (Éponine, Bahorel, Musichetta, Feuilly, Bossuet, and Joly) had all shared a look somewhat akin to “this fucking guy.”

³Éponine had already, in fact, stopped Bahorel telling all of their friends what happened in the hallway. Twice. Just because he is one of her closest friends doesn’t mean that she is in any way, shape, or form above blackmailing him into keeping Enjoltaire’s (Gavroche had come up with the ship name four years previously. He was eight at the time.) secret until they explicitly told people themselves. As she has attested on multiple occasions, just because she’s a bitch, doesn’t mean she’s a bad friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I originally thought I would have this fic done in five chapters, like??? No??? The next chapter should be the last real chapter and the one after that will be the headcannon one. Not going to lie, I'm pretty hyped about it. 
> 
> Also, I hope that everyone likes how I'm presenting their relationship. It's just, I've seen so many fics where the dynamic is so uneven and Grantaire loves Enjolras much more than he loves him and I really wanted to see a fic where Enjolras is as absolutely enamoured with Grantaire as Grantaire is utterly besotted with Enjolras. Also, I couldn't just not do fluff. I couldn't it wouldn't be fair.
> 
> As always, kudos and comment are my lifeblood!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here it is!
> 
> It's late. I know. I am very sorry about that, but, and trust me when I say this, it really could not be helped. I really did not want to half-ass this chapter, it being the last proper one!
> 
> Enjoy!

The Next Day, After School, ABC Meeting

“So, today, we will be talking about environmentally friendly living with an emphasis on affordability, as requested by Éponine and Feuilly,” Enjolras addressed the room in a manner familiar to everyone in it. It was direct and simple, but not without the ever-present air of passion that seemed to linger around Enjolras. To those on the outside, nothing was particularly out of the ordinary, well, perhaps the truly fantastic blackeye that had managed to develop over the course of the night was a little out of the ordinary. To Enjolras, however, this meeting was different from all others.

Now, he was with Grantaire.

Actually _with_ Grantaire.

And he didn’t even get to boast about it.

To allay suspicion, he tried to avoid looking at Grantaire entirely. He raked his eyes over the side of the room opposite to him, letting his eyes slip indiscriminately over Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Gavroche, Marius, Feuilly, and Cosette. He continued speaking as he did this, but paused when his eyes finally settled on his boyfriend. Only for a moment, mind you, but this pause seemed to last a moment too long anyway.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre prompted, “The planet?”

“Uh…” he began dumbly, his brain stuttering with the effort it took to tear his gaze away from Grantaire’s smug and smirking face, “Yes. The planet. As I was saying, we as a species have a moral obligation to take care of the planet, both for our own interests and those around us, be them human or not.”

Enjolras continued to speak, but Grantaire didn’t pay much attention to the actual content of his latest call to arms and, instead, paid more attention to the minuscule details of the overall work of art that was his boyfriend arguing his point of view ever so passionately. The way his nostrils flared and his hands flew about as he spoke and how one specific curl of his hair bounced as he moved about the front of the room, fuelled by purpose. Yes, Enjolras was a work of art and Grantaire was going to watch him, knowing that his unrequited love was not - in actuality - unrequited, for as long as he was able.

If Grantaire was more eloquent and refined, he would have called being able to do so a novelty. However, considering that Grantaire is perhaps the opposite of refined, he was more likely to go with ‘a motherfucking miracle’. To be honest, he still didn’t quite understand how he managed to pull off getting Enjolras to agree to have a single conversation with him, let alone being allowed to sleep over at his house and hold him all night (even when he was awoken, sweaty and afraid, by nightmares).

Several minutes after the beginning of the meeting (Grantaire wasn’t sure how many exactly), he tuned in once again just in time to hear him discussing the part of corporations in climate change with Marius.

“It is the big corporations that are harming the environment the most! If they were to be forced into taking action, or even shut down completely to make room for smaller, more ethical businesses, emissions would be reduced exponentially! That is something that we sorely need and we can’t wait around for greedy moguls to decide to do something out of the goodness of their hearts!” Enjolras argued, gesturing wildly with his hands, something that he only did when a subject especially frustrated him (something that Grantaire had sketched on many occasions).

“I agree wholeheartedly with your sentiment,” Marius agreed, placating Enjolras for the time being, “but many of these corporations provide services or goods vital for many people’s day to day lives. They can’t just be shut down without a plan in place that would help the people that lose their jobs and the access to that service,” Marius reasoned. The guy had a point, not that Grantaire would ever admit to agreeing with him. Well… maybe not _ever._

“You’ve been quieter today, Grantaire,” Enjolras pointed out suddenly. He was worried that it would come across snide and snarky as it had only a day before, but, to his relief, it came out exactly how he meant it. Curious and eager to hear his boyfriend’s opinion.

Boyfriend.

The mere thought of the word put a small smile on his face.

“What do you think?” he asked, excited to know what Grantaire was thinking. Grantaire’s face became pensive for a moment, though, a barely repressed cheeky smile played in his eyes.

“I think that we are over the brink now. Not that we shouldn’t do what we can to try to claw our way back, but we’re in free-fall now. It’s going to take more than just a couple mega-corporations promising to not use plastic straws to get the planet away from the coma our species is about to fuck it into.” Enjolras nodded slightly with the parts he agreed with and scowled a bit with the parts he didn’t, but otherwise didn’t cut in or try to fist fight Grantaire over his naturally cynical point of view. “Plus,” Grantaire continued, “Marius is right.” To say that the rest of the room was shocked at this would be a small over-exaggeration, but several pairs of eyebrows were certainly raised at this¹. “McDonald’s sells large, filling, caloric meals for a very low price. There are many of the most vulnerable people all over the world that rely on that to eat. If that were to suddenly disappear, what would happen to them?” Despite his usual cynism being more sugar-coated and polite than usual, his tone was still laced with challenge and twelve pairs of eyes swivelled to Enjolras, expecting his usual explosive and argumentative response, as had been the routine for the five and a half years that Grantaire had been part of the club.

Much to everyone’s surprise (everyone but Éponine and Bahorel), Enjolras’s response was measured, considerate and he even acknowledged parts of Grantaire’s point of view he agreed with and didn’t use it to destroy his entire argument.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew exactly what was up the moment Enjolras opened his mouth and fire didn’t come spitting out.

On one hand, Combeferre considerately elected not to mention it in front of everyone but instead resolved to congratulate his best friend later, in private.

On the other hand, Courfeyrac didn’t do that.

“No way,” he exclaimed, an almost delirious smile on his face as he alternated pointing an accusing finger and Enjolras and Grantaire, “No Way!”

Courfeyrac has always been very excitable. Much like a puppy, he tends to jump when he gets excited. When his excitement meter isn’t quite at the level that makes him practically jump off the walls, it’s enough to put a spring in his step and an impatient tapping into his fingers. At first, the tapping thing had annoyed many people, but Courfeyrac had always been so lovable that almost everyone got over it quickly, looking past it like they did with his other quirks. Now, though, the excitement could not be contained to his fingers. His voice was rapidly rising in pitch, almost to the level of squealing with delight, and he was practically vibrating in his chair as he took in the embarrassed faces of Enjolras and Grantaire.

Suddenly, everyone was demanding answers. Well, ‘demanding’ is a harsh word. There was no malicious intent behind their friend’s interrogation, they were just, like Courfeyrac, too excited to think about phoning it in a bit.

“When did this happen?” Feuilly asked.

“Who kissed who first?” Musichetta asked before either one could answer Feuilly’s question. Again, they didn’t get a chance to answer as more questions were flung their way. After about three questions, they gave up trying to answer.

“Where were you last night?” came from Éponine, smirking as she sipped at her can of red bull and staring at Grantaire, with his head still resting on the table in front of him with despair, who gave her the middle finger in response.

“Is this about what happened yesterday?” Bossuet asked, slightly confused as he had only just entered the room on account of having to go to the medical room for a plaster once again.

“Can you let me have another proper look at your eye?” came unsurprisingly from Joly.

“Have you been on a date yet?” asked Cosette, looking undoubtedly smug about something despite her naturally sweet exterior.

By that point, Grantaire seemed to have managed to recover from the initial embarrassment, Enjolras, however, had not.

For all that Enjolras was an eloquent and linguistic guy, he could not seem to find a single thing to say in this situation and the irritatingly persistent blush on his cheeks was growing deeper by the second. Grantaire could see Enjolras suffering. Now, he enjoyed seeing his boyfriend squirm a little as much as the next man, but enough is enough.

“Shut it!” Grantaire shouted suddenly, shocking everyone into silence and putting his boyfriend out of his misery, “Okay, yes we are a thing now. This happened yesterday, we were going to wait to tell you all because we are still trying to work everything out and we didn’t want you all asking questions at once,” he looked pointedly at the still buzzing mob. There was an apologetic silence as the crowd momentarily reflected on their actions. It didn’t last long, though, because after a few moments of quiet Courfeyrac pipes up once more.

“So, who had November in the poll?” Cosette raised her hand, the reason for her earlier smugness becoming apparent. The rest of the room collectively groaned and began reaching for their wallets. As Cosette collected her winnings, Bossuet looked like he was sulking.

“Why couldn’t you have waited two more weeks?” he muttered annoyed, fumbling for his wallet that had been dropped on the floor.

Grantaire wasn’t even slightly surprised by this. Well, okay, he was slightly surprised that Cosette had been the one to win, but, the fact that his friends were betting on his love life? Not even a little bit shocking.

Enjolras, on the other hand, was agog. Luckily, he’d had a small amount of warning in the form of Grantaire joking about it the day before. But that’s all he’d thought it was really! A joke! He didn’t think he was serious! But now here he was, watching his friends pay up to a bet that he hadn’t known existed mere moments before.

“Wait!” Gavroche piped up from the back where he was obviously finding the whole ordeal fascinating², “Who kissed who first, then?”

Enjolras was about to give a scathing “None of your business” that would have done absolutely nothing to curb the tide of invasive questions, but he didn’t get the chance because, before he could stop him, Grantaire answered for him.

“Enjolras.”

A chorus of jubilation almost drowned out by one of greater commiseration rang out across the Economics classroom they were using.

On one side, Musichetta, Jehan, Gavroche, Courfeyrac, Éponine, and Combeferre rejoiced their victory, while, on the other, everyone else groaned, mourning their loss. Enjolras sent a look of betrayal over to the smiling Combeferre who merely shrugged at his best friend and continued to celebrate.

Enjolras, now fully despairing at the deplorable humans his friends had turned out to be, seemed to have given up on getting the meeting back on track.

It was a hopeless venture and he knew it.

So, in an act symbolic of his melodramatic misery at that moment, he skulked over to Grantaire’s chair in the corner by the door and took the empty seat on his boyfriend’s right, resting his forehead on Grantaire’s shoulder in anguish.

“Why are our friends such assholes?” he asked, mumbling so only Grantaire would be able to hear him over the chatter of the others.

“It’d be pretty boring if they weren’t,” Grantaire answered before kissing Enjolras lightly on the top of the head and patting him on the shoulder similarly to how you would burp a baby. Given how childish Enjolras looked pouting about the bet, it wasn’t an inappropriate comparison. "You're not mad about me telling them, are you?" he asked, suddenly realising that he didn't ask whether Enjolras was okay with that kind of detail.

"No," Enjolras replied. He felt Grantaire deflate with a sigh of relief under him, "They would have found out eventually somehow. Besides," he continued, "I love you and I am perfectly okay with our friend's knowing that." 

"I love you too," Grantaire replied quietly, content in their little bubble of happiness for the time being. 

Suddenly and dramatically (is there any other way with them) Jehan gasped as though having a scandalous realisation, shocking the other inhabitants of the room into silence. Quickly, they rose from their seat and almost ran to the tall cabinets full of miscellaneous classroom crap at the back of the room. Neither Grantaire nor Enjolras could see what they were doing from where they were sitting, but Enjolras could feel Grantaire holding in laughter and Grantaire heard a small, long-suffering groan come from Enjolras.

Jehan returned moments later with a large glass jar with its faded marmalade label peeling off at the corners. By large, I do not mean big. I mean fucking _large._ Like, why would anyone manufacture jars of marmalade that big? It was bigger than Jehan’s head! It should be mentioned that this absolutely _behemoth_ jar no longer contained marmalade. Somehow, the marmalade had been used up and the jar had become storage for money.

 _Lots_ of money.

Grantaire wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that much money in his life. There had to have been at least a two hundred pounds in there. At least. The most Grantaire had managed to have at one time was one-twenty. _Damn,_ he thought suddenly, looking at the jar rather wistfully, _I should have got in on this bet._

By this point, Enjolras had removed his head from Grantaire’s shoulder and was also staring at the jar agog.

“How long has that been there?” he managed to ask a few seconds later, the shock having worn off a bit.

“It’s been _there_ specifically three months,” Courfeyrac said, emphasising ‘there’ carefully.

“How long has it existed, then?” Enjolras insisted, accustomed to having to ask specific questions to get specific answers when Courf didn’t want to give them.

“Oof, I don’t know,” he answered thoughtfully. To Enjolras’s surprise, this pensiveness was genuine, as though he had seriously forgotten when they had stuffed enough money to care for a small village into an over-sized marmalade jar in a bet to see which of their friends would kiss the other first. Enjolras was mainly surprised at how anyone could forget something so ridiculous. Courfeyrac thought hard for a few more moments before Combeferre cut in.

“We started this specific bet a couple of months after the other one, so… just under five years,” he looked around the others for confirmation, “Yep, that sounds about right.”

Had his pining really been that obvious? Enjolras wondered. Probably. Smiling, he huffed out a laugh. “So basically the entire time the ABC’s been a thing?”

“No!” Courfeyrac said a tad indignantly, “Just as long as Grantaire’s been a part of it! So… like two weeks less than the rest of us.”

“You guys are assholes,” Enjolras replied, shaking his head but smiling nevertheless.

“Hey, we’re not as big assholes as you may think,” Combeferre countered, “half of how ever much has ended up being in the jar _has_ to go to a charity.”

Enjolras’s smile widened almost impossibly so and, he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit, he could feel some tears present behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he acquiesced, clearing his throat lightly, “You’re not as big assholes as I thought you were.”

As the winners busied themselves with splitting the winnings and the losers watched grumbling from the sidelines, Enjolras leaned his head against Grantaire’s shoulder once more. This time though, the gesture was out of comfort rather than despair. Well, mostly comfort, but also the fact that he could. Inside, Enjolras was so elated that he could lean his head against Grantaire, knowing that it was where he belonged. Grantaire rested his head on top of Enjolras’s, very much in the same boat. You might not have been able to tell from the small, content smile on the outside, but, internally, Grantaire was fucking ecstatic.

There were many things wrong with Grantaire’s life at that point in time, but this was not one of them.

Enjolras was not one of them.

This was where they were meant to be.

 

 

¹It’s not that Grantaire and Marius didn’t get on, because they did. More that Enjolras and Grantaire used to, actually. But they were opposites. Plain and simple. Not opposites in the complementary way that Grantaire and Enjolras were opposites, either. Grantaire and Marius were opposites in a way that tended to make the majority of the conversations awkward. Marius would ask how Grantaire’s weekend had gone, not knowing that all of his weekends were pretty shit, Grantaire would make a self-deprecating, fatalistic joke and Marius, ever confused by fatalistic humour, would take him gently aside and ask whether he was okay. To many, this would seem a sweet thing to do, but, to Grantaire, it was just awkward. So, no, they didn’t talk much.

 

²Éponine had forbidden Gavroche from taking part this bet at the time of its conception. To be fair to her, he had been eight at the time and Cosette and Musichetta had only been allowed to join on a special contingency due to their later additions to the group. Unbeknownst to her, Gavroche had entered into the other bet without her knowledge and by the time she had found out (two years later) she didn’t really care enough to do anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! The ending! Well, sort of. 
> 
> The headcannon chapter is next and, at the end, it will have a sort of taster, vignette-type thing for the next instalment in the verse. 
> 
> I do hope everyone has liked this story! I certainly did and I hope that everyone is eager to hear more from this verse!
> 
> Thank you so much to anyone who ever commented or gave me kudos on this fic, especially BookDragon6127 and SummerSnowfall who both commented on every chapter and whom I love very much!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons + A small taster for Volume Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just before we go on with this, some things should be clarified just in case some are confused or unfamiliar with a couple of things mentioned.
> 
> 'the dogs' - A dog track where, in this story, Grantaire's father goes to bet on races. 
> 
> 'Napoleon's' - A casino chain in the UK. In my hometown, there is one next to the dog track and, given the opportunity to reference French politics, how could I resist?
> 
> It has been pointed out to me that these two things are pretty specific to the north - the dogs and Napoleon's - (I'm originally a Sheffield gal myself), but I don't specifically want this universe to be set in the north or Sheffield, I quite like that it's a bit ambiguous in that respect. Anyway!
> 
> Enjoy!

No. 1 – Grantaire was never asked to join the ABC. He just turned up with Éponine one day and didn’t leave. Jehan likes to joke that they all just kind of acquired Grantaire like a stray cat, a cynical, argumentative stray cat.

No. 2 – Éponine was invited to join the ABC by Enjolras after he saw her arguing with the teacher in English one day, two weeks into year seven. He wasn’t even supposed to be in that class, he had just been sent into Éponine’s lesson because he was disrupting his own with arguments about The Charge of The Light Brigade. As he watched her practically yelling at the teacher for being so closed-minded as to not even acknowledge the queer undertones in 'Twelfth Night', he knew that he had to get her to join the ABC by any means necessary.

No. 3 – As mentioned above, only two weeks in to year seven, Enjolras was already being sent out of lessons. Now, he never did anything that warranted him being sent to the office, but he sure as hell argued until the teacher had no choice but to send him out. The Charge of The Light Brigade inspired a lot of feelings within him, okay? And it’s not his fault that all of those feelings were either exasperation or anger.

No. 4 - Joly and Bossuet started going out when they were in year nine before they had met Musichetta. Six months later, Musichetta had begun working at the Café Musain, where Les Amis frequently met, and they both began pining after her. A few months after that, they finally worked up the courage to talk to her and found that they both fell in love with her every time she made a stupid joke or argued with Enjolras that equality and equity are not the same thing or gave the two of them a couple of cupcakes on the house every week. Finally, three months into year ten, they asked her what she thought of poly relationships and, well, the rest is history.

No. 5 – Before Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta started going out, the go-to person for relationship advice in their group of friends was Jehan. This was flawed for a number of reasons. Jehan, whilst being a very romantic-minded person, had not fully grasped the reality of big romantic gestures yet (they still haven’t) and would tell people to do huge, ridiculous things in the pursuit of love, not really understanding why spreading rose petals through someone’s house without their consent was a creepy idea. So, when Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta presented the group with a well-adjusted relationship full of trust and communication, let’s just say Jehan got quite grumpy, grumbling something under their breath about no one appreciating the dramatics of romance anymore.

No. 6 – Courfeyrac has a huge, great, stonking crush on Jehan. Seriously, that crush could rival Grantaire’s crush on Enjolras. Everyone knows about it, of course; Courf is not a subtle guy. Everyone, that is, but Jehan.

No. 7 – Jehan’s head is so far in the clouds sometimes that they will check out of reality completely and spend hours staring at a particular spot on the wall as their imagination runs amok. Jehan has been forbidden from going to the park before school because once they missed an entire day by daydreaming in The Sanctuary. This is also how they miss that their feelings for Courfeyrac are wholeheartedly returned.

No. 8 – Combeferre is 80% of the group’s impulse control. The other 20% is comprised of 10% Éponine, 4% Joly, 4% Feuilly, and 2% Grantaire’s apathy. Once, Combeferre and Éponine missed the beginning of a meeting and, within that short span of ten minutes that they were absent, Enjolras had somehow managed to whip the group up into a loud, rowdy frenzy over the state of the world and had begun planning a legitimate revolution on the whiteboard.

No. 9 – Gavroche hates the way that the lower school is run. “More like a bloody totalitarian police state than a school!” he said of it once. As he can’t risk getting afterschool detentions for fear of missing a meeting, he has begun subtly undermining and sabotaging the worst teachers at the school. In English lessons he gets the entire class to begin quietly humming whenever the teacher starts wrongfully yelling at a student, in Chemistry he purposefully asks the teacher to clarify things from lessons weeks before to get the teacher to slow down a bit, and in Art he steals the supplies from the store cupboard that he knows the teacher saves for herself.

No. 10 – Bossuet is on first name terms with the nurse, Dahlia. In fact, he is there so frequently that Dahlia has a box labelled with his name that is full of every medication he has ever needed and any plasters or wrist braces or pain killers that he might ever need in the future. She also saves all of the coke flavoured lollies for him (plus a few bubble-gum ones; they’re Musichetta’s favourite) as they are his favourite and there are never any left when he looks for them.

No. 11 – Once, some asshole tried to harass Cosette in the hallway. The members of Les Amis who were around were ready to spring into action, but they weren’t as fast as Cosette. Within the span of two seconds, she had her razor-sharp nails pressed into his cheek and was speaking in a low, warning tone. “If you don’t apologise and walk away right now, I will dig my nails into your cheek. Unfortunately, not enough to permanently disfigure you, but enough for you to have to go to the nurse. Now, I don’t think you really want to explain how this happened, do you?” The guy shook his head and practically ran away from her. This was the day that Éponine decided that maybe, just maybe, there is more to Cosette than cutesy floral dresses and little blue sunglasses.

No. 12 – Bahorel is a big, intimidating guy, but he is not in any way remotely concerned with maintaining that image. Sure, it comes in handy sometimes, but he really could not give less of a shit what other people think of him. Once, in year nine, he wore a cute beige hoodie with teddy-bear ears on the hood and did not give a single fuck about anything anyone was saying about him behind his back. In Jehan’s words, “It was majestic.”

No. 13 – Despite his rather meek demeanour, Marius is fluent in sarcasm. Over the years, he has had to deal with so much shit from his Grandfather that sometimes the only way to deal with having a conversation with the man without screaming in his face is to employ levels of sarcasm so subtle that they are able to fly under the radar of his scrutinising grandfather. None of Les Amis really notice this sarcasm much in conversation, except for Cosette. She can tell every time. In fact, the first time he made her actually snort with laughter was when he was sarcastically answering back to the teacher in a way that neither the teacher or any of the other students could recognise.

No. 14 – Feuilly and Bahorel are each other’s go-to sparring partner at the school gym because only Grantaire can keep up with them and he prefers to use the punching bags than risk hurting one of his friends. That is if he could land a punch. Bahorel and Feuilly are so good at sparring at this point that it’s like some sort of violent, punchy dance. They can anticipate each other’s moves with almost disturbing accuracy and so the only way they can make it interesting is to go so quickly that they don’t have time to think while fighting. It’s frankly terrifying to watch.

No. 15 – Grantaire and Éponine introduced the rest of the ABC to the concept of using ‘lads’ as a gender-neutral term. It was actually among one of the first arguments that Grantaire and Enjolras had as members of the ABC. One day, Grantaire had come into the room saying “How are you, lads?” in the same boisterous manner in which he entered the club room every day. An argument had ensued in which Enjolras accused Grantaire of being sexist and ignoring Jehan’s recently discovered gender identity. Grantaire had insisted that ‘lads’ is a gender-neutral term to which Enjolras had just scoffed. Fortunately for Grantaire’s argument, Éponine chose that moment to enter the room with a loud and equally boisterous “Merry fucking Wednesday, lads.” Suffice to say, Enjolras accepted defeat soon after that.

No. 16 – When Enjolras was little, he never swore because he swore once in front of his grandmother and she threatened to box his ears if he ever did again. This ban on swearing lasted until early December of year seven. Grantaire had always sworn a lot, especially in meetings, and one day when he walked into the room announcing excitedly “It’s nearly fucking Christmas, lads!” Enjolras had snapped, years of Catholic conditioning taking their effect. “Must you swear so much? It’s gratuitous and vulgar!” The room had gone silent. This silence was broken by the argument that ensued. Enjolras was persistent in his view that swearing was simply unnecessary and was a reflection of a poor character (as his grandmother had told him when he was little) and Grantaire was equally adamant that swearing enhances one's vocabulary and anyway the concept of swearing is just a societal construct built to keep people in their boxes. As you can probably guess, the latter argument won. As the clock struck midnight on the 24th of December that year, ticking over into the 25th, Enjolras sent Grantaire a text reading “Merry fucking Christmas, Grantaire.” Grantaire had responded immediately with “Merry fucking Christmas, Apollo. And watch your motherfucking language next time.” Now, Enjolras takes pride in swearing. His little heart sings every time he feels like he's going against the grain of society, each tiny rebellion making him even happier than the last.

No. 17 – Éponine, Gavroche, and Feuilly are all Jewish. None of them had what you would call a conventional upbringing, but all of them are proud of who they are and refuse to give up on their faith due to not having time or the ability to take part in the festivals. One year, when Éponine and Feuilly were thirteen, (Gavroche was nine), neither of them had a menorah at Hanukkah and so they got together and made one, lighting it together and hiding it in a hole in a tree in The Sanctuary. Once, when they were having a conversation before the beginning of an ABC meeting about how, due to their home situations, neither of them ever get any Hanukkah gelt, Enjolras overheard and organised for every other member of the ABC to chip in so that both of them (plus Gavroche) would get Hanukkah gelt that year.

No. 18 – Grantaire isn’t Jewish, but likes to say that he is more Jewish than anything else as he only celebrates Christmas for the sake of his friends (though now that he has so many friends he does tend to get quite excited about it) and doesn't celebrate Easter or any other Christian holidays but genuinely enjoys celebrating the Jewish holidays that he is at Éponine’s house for. When they were in year eleven, Éponine was stressing about how her mock exam results weren’t very good and so had forgotten that is was Rosh Hashanah. When he realised this, he walked to the shop, miles away from school, and bought apples and honey for Éponine, Gavroche, Feuilly, and him to all share during the meeting that afternoon. When he gave it to her, it was one of the only times he has ever seen her cry out of happiness.

No. 19 – Combeferre has had a crush on Éponine since year seven. He gets tongue-tied and blushy and stutters when she tries to talk to him. No one noticed back then because that’s how he used to act with everyone, not because he had crushes on everyone, but because of how socially awkward he was. Seriously, Courfeyrac likes to say that Combeferre in year seven was like Enjolras in Starbucks, but for an entire year. Fortunately, he grew out of the social awkwardness for the most part, but he is still a similar way with Éponine. She thinks that he’s still as socially awkward as he always was.

No. 20 – Jehan, Éponine, Grantaire, Bahorel, and Bossuet form what is known as ‘The Detention Bros’ (‘Bros’, like ‘lads’, being used in a gender-neutral way). They are a group of people that are in detention together so frequently that the supervising teacher will comment in surprise if one of them isn’t present. Jehan gets detentions because they tend to take a more abstract approach to the work they are set. This often doesn’t go down well with the teachers. Éponine’s detentions come from arguing with teachers. Grantaire’s come from… well… pretty much everything. Bahorel is often given detentions for punching homophobes when they mess with his friends (he has no regrets whatsoever). If Bossuet’s headstone should say anything, it should say ‘wrong place, wrong time.’ It really is the story of his life.

No. 21 – As well as having a box for Bossuet, Nurse Dahlia also has a box for Joly. It contains latex gloves for when he’s having a particularly bad day, bottles and bottles of hand sanitiser, a menthol stick to help him calm down when he’s having an anxiety attack, an eye mask and earplugs to help with any kind of sensory overload, mint humbugs (his favourite), bubble-gum lollies (Musichetta’s favourite), and some more coke lollies in case Bossuet’s box somehow runs out.

No. 22 – Combeferre took Art GCSE simply because he was told there was a topic on drawing moths and other assorted Lepidoptera (he really fucking loves moths, okay?). Being a skilled technical artist, he passed with flying colours but hated every second of it. To this day he can’t look at a David Hockney painting without feeling nauseous.

No. 23 – Feuilly grew up in and out of different foster and children’s homes (his parents died in a car accident when he was four) and he never stayed in one place longer than a year and a half until he was fourteen. When he was six, he lived in a children’s home for a year where he met and became friends with a little girl called Euphrasie. Not long after becoming friends, she had been adopted by a kind man and had moved far away and the managers of the home wouldn’t tell him where she’d gone. Feuilly would meet Euphrasie again when they were sixteen, but, as her name was different, he didn’t recognise her. Cosette still has no idea it's the same Feuilly she had known as a child.

No. 24 – Gavroche is disliked by many of his teachers as he tends to answer back and question the things they tell him. However, he has only had one detention that he couldn’t argue himself out of. Éponine taught him to never do anything that bad that he can't defend himself for or explain his actions. This unfightable detention (ironically) came for punching a classmate. In Gavroche's defence, the classmate had been making racist comments. The detention strangely didn't come for punching the kid, but for refusing to apologise to a bigot, an action that every single one of Les Amis had praised him for. Even Éponine, who had had to pretend to be stern about fighting, had secretly been very proud of him.

No. 25 – On Fridays, Les Amis hold their meetings in the school theatre, each member taking turns to speak on the stage. Well, apart from Grantaire who prefers to heckle and criticise and argue from his place in the seats. No one’s quite sure how Courfeyrac and Jehan managed to organise this with the theatre department as they are usually very particular about their spaces, but, somehow, they did. Courfeyrac insists that he charmed them, but Jehan simply refuses to agree. The general consensus among the group is that Courfeyrac gave the right person a blowjob (he didn’t but refuses to admit what he actually did do.) Enjolras loves the theatre because it allows him to indulge in his dramatic side that almost never gets the chance to shine.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras didn’t like it. Nope. Not. One. Bit.

The idea that Grantaire would sneak back into the home of his abuser to get his stuff? Not a pleasant thought! And, yes, he knew that it was something that _had_ to happen, but that doesn’t mean that he should be happy about it.

“But, what if he doesn’t go tonight?”

“Apollo,” Grantaire said in a soothing tone, looking Enjolras in the eye and rubbing comforting circles on his arms, “Every single Monday and Tuesday night without fail for thirteen years. He’s not just suddenly going to think ‘huh, I don’t think I’ll go tonight’. Trust me. We’ll be fine.” He trusted Grantaire, of course, he did, but that didn’t stop him worrying. Grantaire seemed to sense this and so ploughed forwards in his reassurance. “Besides, it’s not like I’ll be in there alone. ‘Ponine’ll be with me every step of the way.”

“Enjolras,” Éponine cut in with a grin like the Cheshire cat, “Don’t worry, I’ll bring your boyfriend back in one piece.”

Enjolras scowled but didn’t make any effort to argue further.

“At least go through the schedule one more time. Please?” Enjolras would be the first to admit that he was getting desperate. He just didn’t like it, okay?

Grantaire sighed. Well, he’d always dreamed of Enjolras caring about him enough to be worried over him so, he’s not going to complain about it now!

“He leaves for the dogs at six and is there until they kick him out at ten, then he goes next door to Napoleon’s and goes on the slot machines until midnight. He stumbles home at some time around half-one. We’ll be back to pick up Gav by nine, okay?”

“If you’re not going to be back by nine, text me. Otherwise, if you’re not back by nine-fifteen I’m coming round, got it?” Enjolras’s usual stern, commanding tone was back and thinly veiling the anxiety he felt over the whole situation. Has he mentioned that he didn’t like it? Because he didn’t!

Grantaire could see right through his managerial tone and pulled him in for a tight, comforting hug.

“We’ll be okay,” he said into his boyfriend’s shoulder, “And, if we’re in trouble, I promise that you will be the first person I call.” He punctuated his promise with a soft kiss on Enjolras’s lips that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end in the best way.

As Grantaire pulled away, the tips of Enjolras’s ears were considerably pinker than they had been moments before, but, overall, he was feeling minutely better about this ‘heist’ – as Gavroche had been calling it – than he had been before.

“Not that I don’t love your nauseatingly adorable public displays of affection, but we really should be getting going, R,” she reminded the lovesick weirdos she had somehow developed friendships with, glancing at her cracked watch.

“Right,” Grantaire acknowledged, giving Enjolras one more peck on the lips before joining his best friend at the door.

“You’re okay with watching him, right?” Éponine asked him. Enjolras, to be honest, seemed a little lost with the whole babysitting thing and was beginning to shoot anxious looks across the room to where Gavroche was plugged into his phone, classic punk music leaking out of the cheap headphones.

“Of course. I’m just a little unfamiliar with the territory is all.”

“Don’t worry. Gav’ idolises you. If he tries to talk to you, just answer honestly. Seriously, he thinks that everything that falls out of your face in pure gold,” she reassured him before turning and leaving out the front door, leaving Enjolras somewhat embarrassed in her wake and dragging Grantaire behind her.

Once they were settled in the van that Bahorel had leant them for moving Grantaire’s stuff, Grantaire turned to Éponine with the same expression on his face that she had just seen of Enjolras a minute before.

“What?” she asked, fully prepared to have to launch into a pep talk about how it would be fine and that his dad won’t be there.

The answer she got was not the one she was expecting.   

“He’ll be okay, won’t he? Enjolras I mean. It’s just, I love the kid, but Gav’ can be a lot at times.”

“Not you too, R!” she exclaimed, finally getting exasperated, “Look, you’ve seen Gav’ around Enjolras before. He’s damn near pious! He practically worships the guy! He’ll be okay.”

Grantaire didn’t look fully convinced.

“And so will you,” she added, the everpresent stubbornness in her face rearing up, concrete and resolute. Suddenly, in a rare display of Éponine’s affection, she lunged forward and pulled him into a tight hug.

“You know I’ve got your back, right?”

“I’ll be on your six, ‘Ponine. Always.”

“Damn right, you will,” she said, pulling away and leaning back into the driver’s seat with a practised certainty. Despite it being Bahorel’s van, he couldn’t drive it. In fact, Éponine was the only one in the entire group with a valid driver’s licence. So, though the van wasn’t hers, the seat and mirrors, hell even the damn air conditioning, were all to her specifications. If Bahorel were to sit in the driver’s seat, his knees would likely be at his chin the moment he sat down. Starting the engine, Éponine felt the familiar hum all around her and pulled away from the curb confidently, very much in her comfort zone.

Grantaire, on the other hand, still had his reservations about the ‘heist’.

His head was practically swimming with thoughts of _‘what if he is there?’_ and _‘what if it goes wrong?’_ and, worst of all,  _‘what if you’re putting ‘Ponine in danger?’_

After everything that he said to Enjolras, Grantaire was reluctant to admit it, but he was _scared._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't all of my headcanons, but these are the ones that I felt I could put here without ruining anything I have planned for the next volume!
> 
> Also, I, unfortunately, know very little about Judaism, but I feel very strongly that Éponine, Gavroche, and Feuilly are Jewish and I wanted to try to get it right. For reference, I used this website for the majority of my information: http://www.primaryhomeworkhelp.co.uk/religion/jewishfestivals.html 
> 
> Though I didn't mention it as a full headcanon, I do sort of feel like Jehan is Jewish too, but that neither them or their family practice the religion. However, (as according to Mr Vicky Hugo) Jehan is gifted with language and does speak Hebrew, so I feel that they had a great aunt or something that insisted on teaching them Hebrew when they were little.
> 
> Update: Part Two has now begun. It is technically Part 3 because of some of the art I did in between, but still... Hope you enjoy the continuation of this story, I certainly am!

**Author's Note:**

> Any comment you might have is greatly appreciated and Kudos warm the cockles of my cold, dead heart!


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